


Every Journey Starts With the First Step

by Nanna_Jemima



Series: Bridging the Gaps - MCU One-Shots [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, But This Shit Is Hard, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Everybody needs therapy, Everybody's Trying, Gen, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Psychological Trauma, Recovery, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, There is No Quick-fix, is a bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-01-20 21:01:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanna_Jemima/pseuds/Nanna_Jemima
Summary: Shuri is brilliant, but she can't fix Bucky while he's in cryo, so he's gotta come out. Steve is supportive and between them, they're gonna see about helping Bucky recover as much as possible. While Shuri is brilliant and patient and wise beyond her years, Steve is impatient and has no real insight in this type of trauma, and also very little insight into himself. Steve tries but flounders. Bucky tries but flounders. First things first: they need to find out what the real problem is and then take it from there, but how?





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter is pretty low-key. I'll add warnings to subsequent chapters if they become relevant.

Steve waited impatiently for the med techs to thaw Bucky out. Shuri had not been able to bring him good news, but it seemed Stark was prepared to work with them. Perhaps together they could figure something out. Or Bucky would have to do things the old-fashioned way, as Shuri had put it. Work through it with time and effort.

His thoughts flickered back to Siberia. To Bucharest. His last and first point of contact with Bucky this time around – not counting the brief sullen exchanges on the way to Wakanda, where his oldest friend had insisted on being frozen. He couldn't trust his own mind, he'd said. And yet, Bucky's mind had been the most reasonable of the two of them, at least when he'd been... well, him.

Steve looked at the text from Stark once more. He hadn't responded yet. He should. The longer he waited the harder it became, and by now, almost three months after receiving it, it seemed as petulant to respond as to continue to ignore it. It felt terrible. There was a strong urge to discuss the message with someone – anyone – but he didn't have anyone around, not outside of T'Challa whom he couldn't bring himself to burden with something as petty as a spat between friends. Were they even friends anymore? Steve wasn't so sure. Not after everything that happened.

Electronic bleeps brought his attention back to what he was waiting for. He knew it was just his imagination attaching meaning and significance to it, but he thought the sounds from the heart rate monitor sounded hesitant, like Bucky was reluctant to wake up and get going again. Slowly, ever so slowly, did the bleeps pick up. They settled at 30 bpm, where they remained for a good long while before the techs opened the cryo pod. Then they stepped back – well away from anything resembling striking range – and let Steve step forward.

Bucky looked peaceful and Steve felt guilty for disturbing him. “Bucky?”

Eyelids fluttered, fingers twitched. Steve braced himself for a disoriented super soldier lashing out defensively.

“Buck?” He tried again. “It's Steve. You're safe. Among friends in Wakanda.”

Bucky's eyes shot open and his gaze flitted about the room, before landing on Steve – the only person visible from the pod. Dismay rose and became a thick lump in Steve's throat, as he saw Bucky's features harden and his eyes take on the focused look he'd been so used to seeing before one of the precision shots that had saved many a day with a Commandos.

Vaguely he registered how the heart rate monitor tattled on Bucky's imminent attack by declaring a spike to what would be a normal person's resting pulse. Then his friend's hand came for his throat. Though they might have been evenly matched, that was not the case, when the Winter Soldier was only freshly defrosted and down one arm. The fight was so brief Steve would barely acknowledge it had ever been one. Straddling Bucky's waist, left knee planted firmly on his wrist, Steve grabbed Bucky's jaw and forced eye contact, his heart wrenching at having to do so.

“Buck. It's me, Steve. You know me. You remembered me before. Think! I'm not your enemy!”

Confusion replaced the focused expression and Bucky's eyes seemed to mist over before he went slack beneath Steve's legs. Still no signs of recognition, though.

“Buck?” Steve tried once more.

No reply. Just a stony, empty expression that broke his heart even worse. He couldn't decide whether freezing him or defrosting him had been the mistake. Thinking about it didn't help, and it was his responsibility to make sure Shuri and her team of professionals could safely help his friend. He shifted to let Bucky's arm loose. No reaction. He got up. Bucky remained down.

“Come on. What are you waiting for?” No response.

Steve wanted to close his eyes and just imagine the situation going a lot better, but he remained focused on his expressionless friend. “On your feet, soldier!” He ordered.

That got an immediate reaction. In no time Bucky was on his feet, standing tall, prepared to take orders like nothing was out of the ordinary. Steve sighed, no less heart-broken than when he'd first caught a glimpse of the Winter Soldier's face in Washington DC. Then he nodded to the doctor waiting outside the room and waved him inside. He couldn't blame the man for approaching with considerable caution.

“Turn around,” he ordered Bucky, who did as ordered with sharp and precise movements. The second he saw the doctor – or more likely, Steve surmised, the doctor's white coat – he deflated and took a step backwards, bumping into Steve, where he tensed up as if expecting pain.

Steve didn't think. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around his friend, and held him close. “Easy, Buck. No one's gonna hurt you. You're safe here. The doctor just needs to make sure you're okay. He's not gonna do anything to you.”

The doctor on his part had stiffened and halted his approach. Steve did the only thing he could think of. Without breaking physical contact, he moved around Bucky and placed himself directly between him and doctor. Bucky's face was anything but expressionless now. There was fear painted in his every feature.

“Bucky. Please come back. I know you're in there.”

Blink.

Silence.

Blink.

“Sergeant Barnes?” The doctor spoke from half a dozen feet behind Steve. “I am Dr. Owlahlie, I'm just here to see that you're alright. How do you feel?”

Blink.

“Buck?” Steve decided to turn to what had worked before. “Soldier, you will do as the doctor says and allow him to examine you. I will remain here. If anything is unclear, you look to me for direction. You will not be harmed.”

Bucky's gaze once more fixed on him, the fear having almost dissipated.

“Sergeant Barnes?” The doctor softly asked. Steve shook his head, and the doctor, looking as resigned as Steve felt, spoke again while he indicated the table next to him. “Soldier, take your shirt off and come sit here.”

A fleeting glimpse of fear passed over Bucky's face, but he did do what he was told. Steve wasn't far behind. Things were tenuous and he would not let anyone get hurt. Bucky would never forgive him. At least, the Bucky that had regained his sense of self before going back under wouldn't.

Dr. Owlahlie was quick to check Bucky's pupil response, reflexes, etc while continuously talking in that soothingly soft voice, which could easily have lulled Steve to sleep had he not been hyper-focused on Bucky's every twitch. Shuri probably chose this particular doctor for Bucky's first post-freezer check-up for that exact reason, rather than handle it herself. The brilliant, brilliant woman. If he ever learned to sing, Steve knew he'd probably never finish singing her praises. And she'd probably never stop laughing at him.

Bucky followed the doctor's instruction to the letter, not even so much as twitching, when the cold metal of the stethoscope touched his skin. Steve, having been through enough such exams of his own, did all the sympathy-twitching needed for the situation and felt evermore foolish for reacting more than the slack-faced man he once knew.

“There.” The doctor declared. “Aside from the obvious missing limb, he's as healthy as can be, physically.” Steve nodded and motioned for him to go on. “Princess Shuri has already briefed you on the other issues, I understand, and she has made sure you will meet no one on your way from here to your suite.”

Again Steve could just nod. It would be a long road yet. At least Shuri had not dismissed all hopes of recovery, merely that there would be a quick-fix to years of brutal conditioning. No such thing could be devised. After having consulted with the necessary specialists in the field of psychology, psychiatry and neurology, Shuri had concluded that the only viable path to counteract such conditioning would be for Bucky to face it himself – though definitely not on his own. The last part Steve could guarantee would not be a problem.

“Thank you, doctor. You've all been very kind. King T'Challa and Her Highness has afforded us far more time and effort than I'd ever expect from anyone. We are forever in your debt.” And he meant every word.

Dr. Owlahlie acknowledged his gratitude with a nod and another of those kind, grandfatherly smiles he seemed to have perfected.

Directing his attention back to Bucky, Steve handed him the neatly folded pile of clothes he'd brought, so Bucky wouldn't have to spend more time than necessary in the underclothes he'd worn in cryo. “Get dressed, soldier. Then follow me.”

* * * * *

It took nearly five days before Bucky began to hesitate when given an order. An additional three before he began to acknowledge Steve's presence without first having been spoken to. After yet two days he looked directly at Steve over a spoonful of cereal and spoke: “Why am I out?”

Steve coughed, spluttered and choked on his own cereal. “Bucky?”

Grey eyes darkened and looked down and away. “Bucky's dead.”

Steve's heart sank and he scrambled to regain some kind of composure. “I... yeah, you said that. Sorry.” He kept looking at Bucky, hoping his friend would look back at him again. “It's... it's just, old habits die hard, and your face is the same as then. Mostly. I'm sorry.”

Bucky did look back up. Steve met his searching eyes.

Bucky drew his head back slightly. “You really are, aren't you? Sorry...” He shook his head.

“Something wrong with that?” Steve challenged him, a bit hurt, though he couldn't quite explain why.

“Makes you look like a kicked puppy.”

Steve really was trying his best not to look like a kicked puppy. Nat had described him as exactly that on several occasions. He missed her. She had sided with Tony and then with him and Buck, alienating pretty much everyone in the proces. She hadn't been in touch for months, he had no idea how to contact her, and he missed her brutal honesty and how she kept him grounded. And that train of thought had probably just made him look even more like the aforementioned puppy.

He plopped his spoon back in the cereal bowl and shook his head. “Your sense of humour seems intact.” He paused, then decided to continue. “Jerk.”

A brief smile wavered at the corner of his friend's mouth. “I know, punk.” Then Bucky dropped his gaze again and mumbled: “I don't have much else.”

Recalling Nat's honesty as well as her friendly teasing, he resisted the urge to exclaim 'you have me'. Bucky wasn't an idiot. He would know that well enough after having spent the better part of two weeks constantly in Steve's presence.

“So, what's the smirk for?” A hint of the old Brooklyn crept into Bucky's accent.

Steve shook his head and smiled. “Only just managed to resist telling you, you have me, and now you made me say it anyway.”

“How'd you manage that? Resisting, I mean.” Bucky looked genuinely interested, Steve noted with fondness.

“Remembering how a friend of mine would call me Captain Obvious, if I did.”

Bucky laughed. “Thinking of a name change?”

Though it had been a short bark of laughter, and it never reached his eyes, it was nonetheless a laugh, and Steve clung to it as the proof of there being hope for his friend still.

“No. That sounds more like your business, right now.” He looked pointedly at Bucky, who once more looked away.

Steve wouldn't press the matter, and had certainly not intended for that to be the effect of his words. Nonetheless he couldn't claim utter surprise, when Bucky abruptly stood and strode to one of the windows. He let him stand there for a while and chose to just observe him. His broad shoulders were tense, his right hand clenching and unclenching. Steve was fairly certain that had Bucky still had two arms, they'd be crossed tightly over his chest.

Steve made his way over to him, taking care to relax as much as he could. Taking in the view of the Wakandan plains and the glittering lakes in the background certainly did aid him in his efforts. He wanted to cross his arms, but didn't. It felt like it'd be nothing more than a taunt.

“I... I don't.” Bucky started, stopped, took a deep breath and started again. “I don't deserve his name.”

“Whose name? Your name?” Steve would admit to being confused.

A nod. “With everything I've done... no. I can't be him.”

“B-...” Steve desperately wanted to call him Bucky, but he had spent so many months more or less alone, thinking about all the wrong ways he'd approached things during their 'Civil War'. He had to get it together. In the end he settled for: “No one's expecting you to be who you were in '44.” Then added as an afterthought: “ **I'm** not who I was in '44.”

Bucky looked at him, then. It took every ounce of Steve's willpower to not turn towards him, but instead let him make his observations quietly, unprovoked, uninterrupted. He focused on the glittering lakes instead, trying not to feel too self-conscious. His best friend had been used and abused as a lab rat for decades, surely **he** could withstand a little scrutiny.

Steve had no idea how much time had passed – probably not as much as it felt like – when Bucky finally spoke again. “I'm guessing you're not just talking about the beard.”

 


	2. Kindling

“No, Sergeant Barnes, what I'm saying is the exact opposite.” Shuri rolled her eyes fondly at the confused man. He claimed to be regaining more and more of his memory, but it was painfully obvious to her that his memories were still disjointed and worse; his attention span and ability to hold a thought was severely compromised. It probably would be for a long time yet.

“My apologies, Your Highness. I'm not-”

“Just listen. Please.” She decided to skip over most of the reasons behind her conclusions. She'd already explained all of it in detail to Captain Rogers anyway. “I'll be brief.”

She could tell from his expression and the glint in his eyes that he'd been about to crack a joke at her, but stopped himself. Shuri wished he wouldn't do that, and just talk to her like any other person, jokes included, but he was always respectful. Deferential, even, and she hated every second of it.

“We believe your conditioning can be fully reversed.” She made the statement clear and concise.

“That's good,” Barnes replied with a nod, “so why do I hear apprehension?”

“Because reversing it will be largely up to you, and you are not yet ready to make the attempt.”

He frowned at her. “How do I become ready?”

This was the part she'd failed to get him to understand three times now. “By regaining your mental fortitude.”

The frown deepened. “But didn't you say I shouldn't expect to regain everything I lost?”

Shuri held up a hand to request his patience. “Please? Yes. No one goes through something like this unchanged. Just ask my brother. He is changed and what he went through was less than what you've faced. But you need not regain everything – just enough to fight the conditioning.”

Barnes nodded slowly and Shuri finally saw understanding in his eyes. She wanted to kick herself. She really should learn to start out with the short and simple, if incomplete, explanations, then people could always get more details afterwards if they wanted them. And there would be less wasted time that way. Oh well. Concise was never going to be her middle name anyway.

“So how will I know that I'm ready to break through it?” Always he was asking the hard questions with nebulous answers.

“Difficult to say, Sergeant Barnes. My guess is, you will feel it when you're ready for it, and my warning is to be very sure whether you are truly feeling ready or just hoping you're ready.”

“So you're telling me not to get cocky? Have you been talking to Steve?” Finally he seemed to relax a bit. That flirtatious curl of his lip would probably make hearts melt anywhere. If she didn't know what she did about him, it might have made her heart melt as well, but she looked at his eyes. Despite the lightness of the steel grey colour, the darkness in them sent chills down her spine. She knew he wasn't actually flirting with her – he was just pretending to. And he knew that she knew he was pretending. It was safe. Routine. If anything, the broken man before her needed routines. Captain Rogers was all about helping with the daily ones and with military precision, too. She could help him ease back in some form of social routines. Some of them at least.

“You know very well, I been talking to Captain Rogers. He's the only one of you who will actually listen to what I say.” She mock-pouted at the man on the couch across from her.

“Steve? Listen?” Barnes feigned shock. “I don't remember much, but I do remember that's probably the one thing he never does. Are you sure we're talking about the same Steve?”

“Very funny, jerk.” Rogers' voice sounded from the hallway, and Barnes' face immediately split into a wide grin. This time the expression did reach his eyes, albeit only by a smidgen. Steve poked his head around the corner and grinned at the two of them. Shuri was pleased to see a grin on his face as well. It was boyish, charming. Dangerous. It was good news for women everywhere that these two were primarily concerned with Barnes' rehabilitation. Or bad news, depending on how you looked at it.

“Now listen to the nice lady,” Rogers admonished Barnes, who simply shrugged and focused on her again as Rogers continued on his way away from them. That focus, though. Shuri could absolutely see a deadly soldier behind those eyes. The Captain had told her that Barnes had been a marksman during World War II. Yep, she could see it. Focused, calculating, deadly. Not surprising really, that he retained those qualities, considering what Hydra had been using him for while suppressing his personality. She really hoped he would be able to achive some equilibrium, otherwise he would be far too dangerous to let walk; a train of thought she hated entertaining, but she had to be realistic. And responsible.

“You will need to focus on stabilizing yourself. Only by getting better, stronger will you be able to eventually fight off the conditioning. You will need to work through the trauma of everything that was done to you.” She explained it with as neutral a voice as she could, though the things she had learned about his stay as a mindless weapon made her blood boil.

“And that's where you keep losing me,” Barnes replied, “'cause I thought you said I might not ever fully recover.”

“You don't necessarily need to fully recover. Recovery is not either/or, Sergeant Barnes. It is achieved by degrees.”

She held her left hand up, using her tablet to indicate the cap of a scale. Barnes' eyes fixed on her hand. “If this is full recovery, with no symptoms of old trauma, no triggers, no nightmares, no nothing. Then this,” she moved her right hand up and down between the tablet and her knee before settling on a distance above her knee, but well below the tablet, “is where you are now. You are regaining your memories, but you struggle with chronology and context. You emote very little, I'm guessing because it still feels off to you, you have nightmares and PTSD triggers that we haven't even begun to map out yet. Progress in any of these areas will see you climbing this scale.”

She let her right hand rise slowly. “Now, I don't know where the threshold for stability will be in your case. But let's say it's around here.” She held her hand still indicating the three quarters mark on her 'scale'. “At this point you'll probably still have PTSD triggers, but fewer than now. You'll still have nightmares, but fewer than now. Few enough for you to get enough sleep on a weekly basis if not on a daily one. And you'll be doing well enough to start working on the conditioning. You follow me?”

Barnes nodded, his frown making him look angrier than ever. “And fighting off the conditioning itself?”

Shuri lowered her hands again. “That is something I cannot help you with yet, Sergeant Barnes. In the end, I am probably not the right person to help you with any of it.”

“Why not?” He looked at her. Puzzled expression only changing his frown slightly. “You're real clever...”

“Because I am a scientist, not a therapist. It's not so simple a matter as solving a puzzle, Sergeant Barnes. Remembering might itself be traumatic for you, and I am not a psychologist authorized nor equipped to treat such issues. I am honoured that you would trust me with this, but helping someone through trauma like yours requires training and experience I do not have.”

He didn't even bother trying to hide his disappointment. “So, what do I need to do? To get to this, uhh threshold of stability, was it?”

She nodded. It was difficult to decide on the best answer to the question she had known would come. “You need someone you can trust.”

He briefly glanced in the direction where Rogers had disappeared and then that sniper's focus returned to settle on her. “I take it there's a reason you haven't just told me to talk to Steve. I trust him.”

Shuri nodded, grateful that she wouldn't need to talk him out of things immediately. “Trust is many things. If it was just about trusting someone to keep your secrets for you, I'd tell you to talk to your friend.”

“But...?” That unwavering focus was unnerving.

Shuri tried for a non-committal expression. “If you can also trust him to not judge you, and to actually help you move on from what you've been through, then he could be the right person to talk to. I don't know him well enough to tell, but I do know he's not a therapist.”

Barnes studied her, obviously looking for hidden meanings and finding them. She hadn't hidden them terribly deep. With a thoughtful look on his face he nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get it.” Then he leaned forward, resting his elbow on a knee. “Anyone you'd recommend?”

She shook her head. “You need to talk about the things you remember. The things that have happen-”

“The things I've done,” he interrupted. “It's not just things that happened. Well, that too, but I've done things. You're too brilliant to pretend otherwise, so don't do that for my sake.” Barnes let out a sigh as explosive as if he'd been punched in the gut. “Steve does enough of that for all three of us.”

“Exactly,” she readily agreed. “And you need to also talk about how those things make you feel. For better or worse. And you need to find someone to talk to, who will be able to handle whatever it is you might feel about it all. No matter what that might be.”

There it was again; the darkness she kept seeing in his eyes. He looked down and laughed bitterly. “Yeah, definitely not Steve. He's still hoping to re-unite with the Bucky he knew in '44.” Looking back up his gaze found hers and Shuri found herself hurting for the lost and broken man before her. “He says he understands I'm not that man anymore, but...” Barnes shook his head.

“He's still hoping,” Shuri finished for him. “I probably would too in his place.” She was very aware of the sharp look Barnes sent her and she hurriedly reassured him. “I understand his hope, but it doesn't help you, and you are **not** obliged to humour him. Your priority is you.” She emphasized her point by jabbing a finger in his general direction.

“So, find someone to talk to, who won't judge me for hundreds of murders, sort through the mess that is my head and then figure out how to shelve the shit I don't want.”

Shuri nodded.

“Sounds so easy put like that.” The worried look on his face told her he knew very well it would be anything but.

”I'm sorry, Sergeant Barnes.” She couldn't say much of anything else.

He looked at her for several long seconds and then looked away with the hint of a nod. “So am I, your Highness.”

* * * * *

The next several times Shuri saw Barnes, he was wandering the palace hallways alone, eyes distant, jaw set and not acknowledging anyone he passed. She was no therapist, but it didn't take much more than empathy to figure out the man wasn't sleeping much and spent far too much time with his own thoughts.

Captain Rogers came to see her. “I'm worried about Bucky,” he said the moment he stepped into her lab, not even waiting for her to turn around to acknowledge him.

“Obviously.” What else could she say? His concerned frown had just about frozen in place.

“What am I supposed to do? He won't talk to me.”

Shuri sighed and turned to the impatient Captain. “And what do you expect me to do, Captain? I have told him, what he needs to do. It is up to him how he wants to start.”

“But he won't talk to me!” Rogers looked positively anguished.

“You are not his therapist, Captain. You are his friend. Don't try to be something you're not.”

Rogers threw his arms up and paced across the lab floor. Shuri watched him, he and Barnes were so much alike. Caged predators both of them, even if they had different tempers.

“I want to help him! But he won't let me!”

“Captain, what have you offered him?”

“What?” Rogers froze mid-pace and turned to look at her. “Offered? What do you mean? I've told him he can talk to me about anything.”

She nodded. “Of course, but you are still not his therapist. Have you offered him memories of your youth together?”

Rogers nodded. “Sure, but he seems to want to remember on his own.”

“Or maybe he'd prefer to have a normal conversation.” She lifted both eyebrows at him expectantly, hoping he understood. “Captain, I understand your frustration, but consider this: What were you and he like, when you knew him back in the 30s and 40s?”

“Uhh,” the question made him falter. “why?”

“Just answer the question, please, Captain.”

“He was easy-going, fun-loving, and loyal to a fault, always coming to get me out of the messes, uhhh, that is fights I got myself into.” He blushed a little at the admission.

“So would it be unfair to say that you can be rash and tend to want to hurry things along?” Shuri knew the man wasn't stupid, so she expected he'd conclude the rest on his own.

He didn't disappoint. “I, uhhh. Oh. Huh, yeah. Maybe. Probably.” His blush spread. “And he wouldn't want to burden me with anything.”

“Or maybe he just wants the easy friendship, Captain. A little light goes a long way. Trust me, I know.”

Rogers nodded hesitantly. “So from what he's said, he does remember us. Those are fond memories. Maybe he doesn't want to share the darkness with me, because that would distort the lightness of the friendship we had back then.”

She nodded encouragingly, but Rogers was so lost in thought Shuri was pretty sure he didn't see a damn thing. Instead she waited for him to continue.

“So I should suggest we do some of the things we used to do together back then? Before the war?”

“It's worth a try, yes? And try to get him to talk to someone else, someone who isn't his friend, someone whom he won't be afraid of losing.”

 


	3. Transition

Five months. What had he been thinking? James glared at Steve for a good five minutes before he felt able to say something. He still found it difficult to string full sentences together sometimes. This night's nightmares were still fresh in his mind, tumbling around and mixing with every other thought. Apparently thinking for five minutes was too long and Steve beat him to the next words.

“I have no idea why he wrote that,” his friend explained, as if that was the reason for his silence.

He shook his head, amazed that such an otherwise sensitive and caring guy could be so dense. “I do,” he said simply, not really intending to go deeper into it. It was hardly the most pressing matter.

Steve perked up and clearly expected him to explain. James wasn't sure that was a conversation it would be productive to have right now, or ever, if Steve couldn't figure it out on his own, so he just shook his head again and tried to deflect, knowing how badly it would disappoint his friend. That seemed to be all he did these days. Disappoint.

_Cruel eyes looking at him with unabashed curiosity. “Again!”_

Sinking back into the cushions Steve almost pouted. “You're not gonna tell me...”

He shrugged. “You did what he asked and told me. The rest is between Stark and me. God knows I owe him a lifetime of apologies and atonement, **he** shouldn't be thanking me anyway.”

_The crackling sound of bones being crushed still reverberating in his ears much louder than the sound had ever been. Waking him up every night._

“Buck...” He almost felt bad for making Steve sad, but after all the conversations he'd had with Dr. Owlahlie, he was finally beginning to hold onto the knowledge that Steve's feelings were Steve's business.

“Steve?” It was such an easy way to make him stop.

The man in question sighed heavily and once again silently admitted defeat.

_Darkness swirled around inbetween his words. It was easier, when he relaxed and stopped fighting. The pain didn't last as long then._

“So you never answered it. Why not?” The guilty look on Steve's face was all he needed. The punk was an open book. “Really Steve. Why?”

Steve gingerly put the phone back on the table as if it might bite him if he said the wrong thing. “I... don't actually know.”

James smirked. He knew it was probably a bit more smug than Steve deserved, but he couldn't help it. “Come on, Steve, you can do better than 'I don't know', can't you?”

The sharp glance he earned told him his friend knew exactly what he was referring to. And if there'd been any doubt, the way he self-consciously grabbed his left forearm, revealed how well he remembered how they'd restrained an artificial limb in an industrial vice. James didn't blame him. It had worked. Steve's improvisation and crazy, decidedly non-army-standard ideas had been the winning factor for them always. And it had won against him as well.

_Bullets ricocheting off his left arm. Knowing how much faster he was was good. A full charge against a spray of bullets, and he kept going. Felt powerful. It was rush._

“I... well, at first you were still in cryo. Couldn't pass on the message. And then...” Steve shrugged helplessly.

“And me being on ice means you can't write your friend through the past handful of years? Sounds like a real bad excuse to me.”

Steve hung his head. “I don't know what to tell you. I know I've made a mess of things, being too rash. I just... what he asked of us would have limited our freedom. The freedom I've lost so much fighting for. It just seemed... wrong. Still does.”

_Fingers closing around a throat. Wide eyes losing focus, mouth agape. A silent scream and then a wet gurgle._

James shook his head. “And as usual, you thought the right way to go about it was to be provocatively judgmental until you got the fight you wanted against the bigger guy in the back alley.”

Steve blushed furiously, though James couldn't tell whether it was embarrassment or anger. “That's not-”

“Isn't it?” He interrupted. “'Cause it sure looks exactly like it from where I'm sitting. If there hadn't been two of us and only one of him, he would have wiped the floor with you. Just like old times.”

Once again Steve's head hung, this time supported by his hands, elbows on his knees. “And next you're gonna tell me you sometimes think I like getting punched?”

James blinked. “I said that?” It did sound vaguely familiar.

Steve nodded, still not looking up, head still in his hands. “Last fight you finished for me before you shipped out,” he mumbled.

_A crushed head between his hands. Blood seeping between his fingers. Clear fluid, too. He didn't bother to wipe his hands before riffling through his mark's belongings for the tech he came for._

“Damn...” He didn't remember it. “Where was it?”

“Behind a movie theatre. I'd shushed some dude who was annoyed with the recruitment reels.”

James could imagine it. Steve's tendency to correct others hadn't changed much in the intervening years. “I take it he didn't like that much?”

A snort answered his question. “You could say that.”

_He sauntered down the alley, heard Steve, little Stevie claim he could do this all day. He tapped a shoulder, told him to pick on someone his own size, and punched his lights out. Stevie, stubbornly declared he had him on the ropes._

“Buck?”

James shook his head, attempting to focus on the coffee table in front of him. “Yeah, yeah. Shit, sorry.”

“What is it?” The concern in Steve's voice was palpable and so painfully honest it was the main reason James couldn't truly get angry with him. Annoyed at the most, and even that didn't last as long as he sometimes wished.

He frowned and tried to focus on the brief event that had flashed before his eyes. “I... I think, I just remembered. I was in uniform, right?”

Steve nodded, suddenly looking hopeful again. “What else do you remember?”

Now it was his turn to look away with a grimace. “More than I like about things I don't like.”

_The efficiency of a crushed neck felt good. Efficiency was satisfying. He was rewarded for expediency and efficiency. Being useful was a good feeling._

“But at least you're remembering. That means your brain is healing according to Shuri.”

James huffed and he knew he didn't look too pleased with it. “Yeah. I know. Doesn't make it any easier.”

“Buck, you weren't' responsible.” His friend's frown indicated he might launch into another lecture about free will.

“Steve, please. Not this again.”

“I'll keep reminding you of it as long as it takes, Buck.”

“ _Good work, soldier.” A rush of satisfaction and relief. The pleasure of knowing he did his job just right._

James realised he would have to try and explain it again. “Steve, It's not about that.”

Steve's frown deepened and James had to look away. “Talk to me, Buck. I want to understand.”

He sighed. “I didn't control my mind. They broke it down. I'm still just putting it back together. But the broken mind that obeyed them made decisions on how to best kill, maim and torture. And I have the memories of making those decisions. I have the memories of doing those things.”

He looked up and saw Steve swallow.

“Shuri explained the wipes to you. I think you probably understood better than me.”

_The burning pain started in his scalp. It didn't take long before the crackling of electricity filled all of his senses. But it always started in his scalp. The burning. Being unable to breathe and slowly suffocating. The stench of burnt hair. And then just crackling. He was pain._

Steve nodded. “You still have trouble committing new things to memory?”

“Yeah, she says it'll come back to me. But for now, I'll have to rely on you to remember longer explanations and scientific stuff.” He chuckled a bit. “I think our poor beleaguered princess gets really exasperated with me at times. Hides it. Not very well, though. She's really nice about it.”

That made Steve laugh a little. “Yeah well, she's the one who's seen and understood the scans of your brain.”

“Whatever mess is left of it.” He didn't bother to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I can hardly believe she thinks it'll heal.”

“It's already healing according to the development she sees in your weekly scans,” Steve insisted. “Apparently the serum they treated you with, has been working against those mind wipes.”

James winced at the memory.

_He was in pain. He dealt pain. He was pain._

“Sorry,” Steve immediately said.

The irony wasn't lost on James. The serum that infernal doctor had managed to treat him with in Azzano had allowed him to survive a fall that should have killed him. None of them had even realised there were any real effects of it after Steve freed the lot of them. At least none aside from the two weeks of vomiting every time he tried to eat something solid. He had focused on getting better, so he could go back out there with Steve, who hadn't really needed looking after anymore. No one had worried about how quickly he recovered, he'd been the only survivor who'd been through that particular treatment, so there had been no comparison.

Not only had he survived a fall he shouldn't have, it had led him directly back into their hands. He should have been dead, instead he'd become an enemy of his own people.

_Pain was in him, all around him. At the tips of his fingers was death. He held people's lives in the palm of his hand. The awareness of such power was exhilarating._

“It's ironic,” Steve said, and James knew they weren't seeing the same irony. “The thing they used to make you even more deadly also made their effort to control you ineffective.”

He had a hard time figuring out how to respond. The thing that made him more deadly and durable also made it necessary for them to subject him to so much more torture. At so many stages of the whole proces it would have been better for everyone if he had just succumbed to the physical mistreatment and died. But no, at the most inopportune moments in his life he took a page out of Steve's book and decided to be stubborn as hell.

James decided to just answer with a nod. The rest was too complicated and he still had to try and explain to Steve why it wasn't so easy as: it wasn't him.

“So, why are you so adamant about feeling guilty about something you didn't do?”

“Because I did do it.”

“But it wasn't you! It was their puppet! Bucky, you don't need to punish yourself for this.”

James held up his hand. “Please, Steve. Let me try. Words are hard enough as it is.”

His friend let out a frustrated huff. “Of course. I'll try and be patient.”

James took a deep breath and tried to decided how to even start. He'd come a long way with Dr. Owlahlie in re-learning how to relate to himself, but he was far from done.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ugh, I'm gonna need a drink for this, I think.”

Immediately Steve jumped up. “That's something I can actually fix for you.” James could hear the relieved smile in his his voice, as Steve made his way to the drinks cabinet. “What'll you have?”

“Vod-... no, bourbon. Yeah, bourbon. Straight and lots of it.”

When Steve returned and handed him a glass, James noticed that glint of shrewd intelligence that had made him such a good strategist and leader. To his relief no comments came.

Steve returned to his seat across from him. Surprisingly he managed to stay silent.

He might as well get it over with. Or at least get it started. Taking a large gulp of bourbon and letting it burn in his throat he started: “I... am Bucky, but I'm also... not.”

He saw Steve's eyebrows twitch, but his friend remained silent.

“No, that's not right. I **was** Bucky. I remember being Bucky. Or at least I remember some of it. Of him, uhh me.” He sighed in frustration not bothering to hide it. “What they did to me, I...”

_Pain. Constant pain. All the pain he felt he passed on to others. He never ran out of pain._

“I was never as good as you, Steve. No, don't object. Please. We both know it's true. I'm not saying Bucky was a bad person, but he wasn't as good as you.”

Focus, Barnes, focus. “Everybody did what they had to to make it through the war. And while you shone as the hero, I was fine with sniping people at a distance. It was easier to forget they were people that way. I was fine with that. I think.”

_Death at his fingertips. Death in his scope. He dealt death. He did it well._

“I'm not sure that Bucky... I... Bucky would have made it through the war.” He couldn't look at Steve. He took another gulp of the strong liquor in his glass. “Lines were blurring, and I never had the strong conviction you did. I followed you, because I knew you wouldn't lead us astray. With you in the lead, I wouldn't have to worry about no longer being able to tell right from wrong. You could always tell, but I was slipping. I don't know how or why...”

_Death. Always death. And pain._

“Maybe it was the effects of what Z-,” he couldn't bring himself to say the name, “that madman did to me before you got us out. Maybe it's just what war does to people. Or to me.”

“Anyway, Bucky was... coming undone. And then I fell.”

_Steve's hand so close and yet so far. His oldest friend's face full of fear and determination._

“I was still Bucky for a while after that. The first many times I woke up, I was still him. Me.” He swallowed thickly. “Him. I did what I could to fight them, but...” He shook his head. “What they did to me...”

“You don't have to tell me the details,” Steve said quietly. “Unless you want to, of course.”

James looked at him, sending him a grateful smile and nodded. Figuring out how to explain how things seemed to have worked was still hard. “Shuri explained to you how they erased my memory?”

Steve nodded.

“They erased my memories of being Bucky, but they didn't turn off my brain. They wanted a soldier who could think and react in the field. They didn't need a mindless robot. They wanted a mind they could shape. And they did.”

He drained his glass and tried to distance his emotions from the story he was telling. He needed Steve to understand and accept this, and right now the man was listening.

“A mind develops a personality. Apparently that's what holds it together or something. Not sure I understood Shuri right. So when memories of Bucky were gone, they shaped a new mind and personality with...” _He was pain._ “...torture and training.”

“If I'm getting the time right, I think the first many times my memories resurfaced, Bucky's personality was still dominant. But after some time The Winter Soldier held more sway. His memories were fresher. And there were more and more of them. His personality became the stronger one, because they kept repeating the things that made him... him. Made me him. Made him me.”

He glanced at Steve. There was so much pain in his friend's expression.

_He excelled at causing pain. He was pain._

“Now that my brain is being allowed to heal. Fully that is. The memories of both are coming back. I remember being Bucky and I remember being The Winter Soldier, and though the Winter Soldier was definitely not Bucky – you're right about that – they are both me. I am both of them. They're both complete personalities shaped by different experiences. And now I remember both sets of experiences.” He sighed in frustration, unsure whether what he was saying made any sense. “So now I'm trying to patch together a personality from both of them.”

“The Bucky-part of me would love to scrap The Winter Soldier-part. But I can't forget everything that made The Winter Soldier. It's all a part of me. He's a part of me. And I'm trying to make it work. It's hard.”

Steve held out the bottle of bourbon offering him a refill. James hadn't even noticed he'd brought the bottle with him to the table in the first place. Perhaps his friend understood a bit more than he'd given him credit for. He held out his glass, grateful for small things like plenty of booze.

“You really weren't just being dramatic when you said Bucky died 75 years ago, huh?”

“Drama was always more your thing than mine.”

Steve chuckled self-consciously. “Guess I'll have to eat that one.”

“You better, punk.”

“Jerk.”

They looked at each other and then ended up with a much needed laugh.

“Not dramatic no. Not accurate either, though. Bucky was put to sleep, and someone else lived in my head for a long time. Just because Bucky is sort of waking up again, doesn't mean the other moved out, though.”

“I've read about some really weird cases of split personalities, but yours is going to make writers drool all over themselves,” Steve commented drily.

“Yeah,” James agreed. “Let's not let too many people in on this.”

Steve nodded vehemently and knocked back a hearty gulp of bourbon.

“Anyway, you can do the math. The Winter Soldier lived for nearly twice as long as Bucky. I respond more readily to 'soldier' than 'bucky'. You've seen this for yourself.” This was the hardest part. The one he wasn't sure Steve would ever accept. “The Winter Soldier is the stronger of the personalities. He takes up more space in my head. If that make sense.” He looked to Steve to see if he was still following his reasoning. The slightly queasy look indicated yes.

“So I need to use my resurfacing memories of Bucky to adjust The Winter Soldier's personality into something that's acceptable. Something I can live with. If I don't manage that, I'll remain too dangerous to be let out in the world again. And that's not even counting those trigger words.”

Steve looked no less queasy at that. “You seem to be doing alright at that, though.”

“Steve, right now I am straining hard to put as much of Bucky into my personality and this conversation as I can. Mostly for your sake. And it's really hard work. It takes concentration. Lots. It's exhausting really.”

“And if you didn't do this?”

“Then you probably wouldn't like me much,” James admitted with a wince. “The Winter Soldier really doesn't like you.”

He grinned. “I'm not surprised. First time we met, we did bruise each other up pretty good.”

“It's not a joke.”

“No. I mean it,” Steve insisted. “Think about it. The first interaction The Winter Soldier had with me was as enemies. And none of your, uhhh, Bucky's memories to temper that.”

James appreciated how Steve tried to adjust to what he'd told him. “So what're you getting at?”

“I'm not saying I like the idea of giving up on Bucky and getting a Winter Soldier instead, but if you need to uhhh, infuse some Bucky into the Soldier shouldn't the Soldier be the one talking to me? Moderated by Bucky? Or something...?”

James stared. “I... uhhh hadn't really thought of that. Mainly because the impulse to attempt to kill or at least harm you is really strong. The risk is...” He wanted to say unacceptable, but it might also be inevitable.

His friend nodded, though. “Are you sure there's no way Bucky can become the dominant personality again?”

James shook his head. “I'm saying, I have memories of both, and I need to build a new personality. A new me. And the Soldier has more memories than Bucky ever had time to make.”

“Guess that means the Soldier and I need to get to know each other,” Steve simply concluded. “Properly.”

James was genuinely surprised. He had not expected Steve to want anything to do with the Soldier. “You sure?”

“Of course. If the Soldier is going to be the basis you have to build your new personality on, what better way to infuse him with some of the old Bucky's ways, than by introducing him to what we had directly. Who knows? He might take to it.”

James snorted. “I doubt that'll happen. But you're making sense. I think. I need to discuss this with Dr. Owlahlie, though. He can probably help devise an approach.”

“So that's your assignment,” Steve joked with wink. “Talk to the good doctor about whether this is even a good idea. And whether it's for now or for later. Just... I miss my old friend. And I'm slowly coming to accept that he's not coming back the way he was. But you're here, and that's still more than I ever knew could happen. Any way I can help, say the word.”

James knocked back the rest of his bourbon. “Then your assignment has to be to answer Stark. He reached out. First in the silo and then that text. He doesn't deserve your silence.” Steve looked appropriately ashamed of himself, James noted with some amount of satisfaction, before he continued: “And now I really need to go sleep. I get little enough as it is. Holding the Soldier off is hard work.”

“I know,” Steve responded with a smirk. “Cost me a number of broken facial bones in D.C. Sleep well, jerk.”

James shook his head. “Punk...”

_Pain always prevailed._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally I got to Bucky's POV. More meat on this chapter, because of it. I hope you enjoy. Please leave a comment. This planned series of inter-connected one-shots has already been expanded once by a reader comment.


	4. Amalgamation

Steve was nervous. He could admit that. At least to himself. No, he was also admitting it to Shuri, who was standing right beside him. Not in words, mind you, but he wasn't doing a terribly good job of hiding his anxious shuffling around. The calm colours of the lounge and the panoramic view of the Wakandan slice of paradise didn't change the fact that his oldest friend was a lot worse off than he had first thought.

Dr. Owlahlie had given him a few pointers on what to expect from his first meeting with an unmoderated Bucky – at Bucky's request. His friend had been insisting that Bucky was dead, so who was he going to be talking to? Steve had no idea what to expect. He didn't even really know what to call him. Well, he supposed that was a place to start – he'd simply have to ask the man, what he'd like to be called.

He was still reeling from it all. Bucky had been dead. And then he had been right there in front of him, but it hadn't been Bucky. And then Bucky had been there again. And now Bucky had told him he wasn't Bucky anymore. But he hadn't fully closed to door on ever being Bucky again. At least partially. No wonder his friend looked like he wasn't sleeping much. And that was without taking into account all the things he'd seen and done during his stay with the soviets. That had to be nightmare fuel of the highest order according to the snippets Nat had been willing to tell him. Killing so many people... His Bucky would have to feel crushed under that knowledge.

The paper clippings and footage they had seen in Zola's bunker at Camp Lehigh flashed before his eyes. He couldn't remember half of them, but that one from 1963 had hit him hard and stuck with him. He didn't know if Bucky even remembered that. Yet. According to the princess, he would, in time, remember everything. Steve shuddered to think of what it would do to Bucky to know he'd shot and killed a president. Perhaps it was an odd sort of mercy that the old Bucky wasn't fully around anymore. Maybe, just maybe, it would hit, whoever he was now, a little less hard. Steve could want that for him, even if he still couldn't quite believe what Bucky had said.

“It will be fine, Captain Rogers. Strange at first, yes, but you'll see,” Shuri reassured him.

“I hope, you're right. And it's really just Steve.” He'd told her so many times now, but everytime he returned for another visit, she always returned to the titular address as if she didn't want to get too familiar.

She nodded, but didn't acknowledge his words any further. “Give it time. He's coming into his own self little by little. It's a long and slow proces to unravel so many years of confusion.”

“Yeah, I'm just glad he finally told me, he'd been pretending for my sake. I hope it hasn't set him back too much. Feels like failing him all over again.” What a way to repay his friend for always looking out for him, whenever he'd needed it. Loyal Bucky who had always had his back and pulled him out of more scrapes than he could count.

“Cap- Steve, that was his choice. You didn't know, he didn't consult you about it.” He knew Shuri was right, but it didn't change the fact that once again Bucky had followed his lead to his own detriment. Just like after Azzano, when he could have caught a well-deserved break, but decided to sign on with him to form the Howling Commandos. And it had led to his fall.

Thinking along those lines it occurred to him it might also be relevant to ask Bucky about motivations. Steve had taken it upon himself to lead the Commandos against Hydra. Someone had to do it, and no one else was doing it. Hydra was a serious threat that needed a specialised effort. Their crack team had really made all the difference, he was proud to say. They had kept putting dents in Hydra's armour until they could get to the heart and take them off the board like they needed. Buck, though? He hadn't even gotten to see the final blow. He probably would want the story of where all their hard work had eventually led.

When Bucky and Dr. Owlahlie entered the room Steve immediately noticed the difference. His heart sank. God, he hadn't realised it would be this much. The man striding in by the doctor's side held himself differently, walked differently. This was absolutely the man he had fought first on the bridge and later on the helicarrier. The one who had thrown him down an elevator shaft. A man who was alive – if not well. This was without a doubt the Winter Soldier, still very much present even without the triggers. Even without the ominous looking metal arm he exuded danger. He suddenly realised why Shuri had taken to calling him White Wolf. This man was a predator; pure and simple. No, Steve refused to believe that. Bucky was still in there. He had admitted as much during their last talk, and his Bucky was not a killer. He silently promised that he would help bring out the real Bucky through this Soldier shell that looked like him, and it looked like it would be a lot more work than he had expected. For now he would see what Bucky had to say.

Steve swallowed and walked towards them. He truly did not have any idea what to expect from this completely different person inhabiting the body of his friend. It had been shocking and confusing back in D.C., but even now when he had been warned it threw him off. When three paces yet separated them, the Soldier held up his hand, rooting him to the spot.

“No closer for now.” His tone was different of course, but his diction too; less Brooklyn, more Russian accent. Even if just a little.

Steve remained in place and nodded, making sure to be as relaxed as he was able. “It's your call, Buck.”

The Soldier took a long look at him, his penetrating glare making Steve want to squirm. Then he closed his eyes, frowned in concentration and exhaled slowly through his nose before opening his eyes again, eyes that Steve hardly even recognised, despite the colour being exactly what it had always been. Bucky nodded to the doctor and Shuri. “I'm in control. We should be okay. Thank you.” The tone was neutral, guarded, but confident.

“Remember what we talked about, Sergeant Barnes. Don't wait until you're exhausted before calling it a day,” Dr. Owlahlie prompted. “Stick to what you've prepared for. And call for me if you need anything. I'll be right down the hall.”

The Soldier nodded and a minuscule hint of a smile made the corner of his mouth twitch. When Shuri passed him on her way out, she reached out, slowly, deliberately to pat his arm. She moved like she was approaching a feral dog, and it pissed Steve off. This was his friend, not some monster. Bucky watched her hand intently through all the movements and nodded to her as well before she left the two of them to their much needed talk.

When the door closed behind the princess, Bucky's eyes found his again. The darkness he had seen lurking there before was now at the forefront. Those eyes were haunted and full of pain. He felt no impulse to go and clasp this man in a brotherly hug. There was absolutely nothing about him that invited anything of the sort. They watched each other. Steve had no idea how long.

“You were my mission.” The tone was hollow and the words were bit out like they were painful little embers to extinguish.

Steve nodded. “So you said, when we fought on the helicarrier.”

“And you're not dead. You're still my mission. It has not been recalled.”

Steve nodded again. He wasn't sure whether it was meant to be a threat, but nothing in the Bucky's stance indicated anything of the sort – despite the words. He decided to make an assumption and voice it: “You're obviously under some strain.” Bucky snorted lightly, but didn't comment. “I take it, going against your standing orders is difficult?”

A tilt of his head. “Not just difficult. It's painful. Physically painful.”

“Shit. S-”

“Don't. Say it.” The Soldier interrupted harshly and pinned him with an angry glare. “I don't want you sorry. I want you to meet what... who I also am.”

“Okay,” Steve readily agreed and spread his hands wide in an open gesture. “I have no idea about any of this. How do you want to proceed?”

Bucky's brows furrowed. He seemed confused for a moment. “You are surprisingly calm about this me. I had expected... something else. More... upset.”

Steve's cheeks heated and he ducked his head. “I made you a promise. To the end of the line. I won't lie, I had expected something else, too, but this is what I've got, and I'm not failing you again. We've a lot of time to make up for, lots of catching up to do. I'm just glad you're alive and back by my side.”

The sniper's focus remained trained on him and not so much as a nerve twitched to indicate what the Soldier before him was thinking.

Steve decided to continue: “I won't tell you this is easy, 'cause it's not. It's really strange, and I have a lot of questions. But I did promise. So you set the pace, I'll follow **your** lead for once.”

He hoped it would be well received, but so far it seemed the Soldier was the rigidly controlled type, whether by necessity or habit he wasn't entirely sure. Maybe both. As long as he remained that way, Steve had a chance to adjust accordingly, but he couldn't read him. There were no tells, nothing to help Steve predict anything at all. He was going in blind, for as much as he hated to admit it, anything he knew about Bucky, wouldn't be of much help here.

“Sit.” The Soldier indicated one of the couches in the lounge. Steve made sure to move calmly as he got over there and did as ordered. He made no big deal out of turning his back on the Soldier, even if the skin on the back of his neck prickled and warned him about a threat at his back. His instincts sure didn't recognize the man as his friend.

When he turned to sit, he was startled to see Bucky already sitting in the couch opposite from his. Steve hadn't even heard him move. He swallowed thickly and thought of how many assassinations Nat had said this ghost had been credited with. And presumably there would be a fair number beyond that.

“Your questions,” the man with his friend's features started, though now there was hesitation evident in the tone. “I don't know how to start... this. Conversation was not prioritized in my skillset, but if you have questions... maybe a place to start.” The Soldier didn't look at him while speaking, and Steve wasn't sure what had changed from when they were standing.

He would start out simple. “What should I call you?”

The Soldier looked startled, eyes widened and lips parted slightly, though that quickly vanished again. “What?”

“You said Bucky was dead. I don't think I fully understood what you meant, what that meant, until you walked through that door just now.” Steve admitted, trying to ignore how much that actually terrified him. “Try as I might, the way you're behaving right now, I don't even think I **could** pretend you're the same person. So what should I call you?”

Another ghost of a smile flitted across his friend's features, if he even had the right to call him friend anymore. “Everyone seems content enough with Sergeant Barnes, but I take it you'd like something less impersonal?”

It was Steve's turn to pin the Soldier with a determined stare of his own. “I asked you to stop pretending for my sake. What would **you** like me to call you?”

The Soldier's inscrutable expression moved not so much as a micron as he looked at Steve, who for his part felt like a boy who'd just been caught with his hands in the cookie jar. He wanted to fidget. Captain America did **not** fidget. He tried meeting the Soldier's gaze, but it soon became evident the man wasn't actually looking at him. He would give him time, and looked off to the side and out the windows instead. The view of lush forests was something he didn't think he'd tire of this lifetime. Even if he missed New York, all the green served to calm him. Idly he wondered how much Bucky had yet remembered of their lives in old New York.

“Barnes.” The gruff voice, so familiar yet so strange, pulled him back to the present. “I'd like to start with Barnes. I'm still just getting used to that.”

“Understood. We'll go with that,” Steve said. It would take some getting used to, but he could manage. It did make him sad that they couldn't just go straight to nicknames. No, they **had** gone straight to nicknames, but that had apparently been an inordinately steep effort for Bucky to put himself through. Steve couldn't ask that of him. He hadn't asked that of him. And yet it's what Bucky, no... Barnes had done. The realisation stung; The man before him was so used to denying himself in the service of others that he did it even for a person he had apparently decided was an ally. Steve resolved to try and nip that sort of behaviour in the bud from here on out.

He realised he was staring. It didn't seem to bother Bucky, though. The face that looked back at him was perfectly passive and devoid of any expression. Except maybe a somewhat lost look. “Uhh, would you prefer that I ask more questions?”

Barnes nodded curtly.

Steve wracked his brain for something it would make sense to start with. He had so many questions, and not a single one of them seemed appropriate to ask of this man, who was even less familiar to him than he had expected – and that wasn't a lot in the first place. Purpose. If anything the Soldier before him understood the concept of purpose. Yeah, that would have to be his angle.

“The idea was to get to know you, but I'm not sure what to ask about, when it comes to your uhhh,” he struggled to find a neutral term, “... career?”

The Soldier's grey eyes remained studiously blank. Awaiting an actual question, Steve surmised.

“I know you've remembered a few snippets about us. Uhhhm...” he felt foolish. This was ridiculously far outside his frame of reference, and coming from someone who'd slept away 70 years that was saying something. “Tell me about those memories? Of us, I mean. I have my own, but if I am to get to know you, I think knowing your view about a situation I'm familiar with might be something to work with.” And this way he was also leaving some choice up to Bu- Barnes. It wasn't supposed to be an interrogation, after all.

The minuscule widening of Barnes' eyes revealed that he'd realised just that. And was that panic? It was quickly replaced with a slight frown.

Letting his head tilt slightly towards his left shoulder Barnes looked at him with narrowed eyes. “I don't remember much yet.”

“We've talked about a couple of memories already... that last fight you finished for me. How about that one?”

Barnes studied him. “You reminded me of what I said. Sometimes I think you like getting punched,” he quoted Steve quoting him.

Steve confirmed with a nod.

“You don't.” The statement was flat, but there was a definite finality to it.

“What? Like getting punched? Course not,” he laughed a little, completely at a loss as to what Barnes was getting at.

“So why? I don't think I ever understood. I have no memory of understanding. Why pick fights?”

“I couldn't just...” Steve trailed off. Clearly the question he chose to ask hadn't been so easy a starting point as his friend had hoped for. “What do you remember me telling you?”

Face scrunched up in concentration Barnes remained silent for a while. Steve allowed him time to gather his thoughts and poured two glasses of water from the pitcher on the table between them.

When Barnes finally did speak his tone was almost clinical again. “You've mentioned duty, the right thing to do, that you couldn't just do nothing, that someone needed to stand up to a bully, that someone needed to be told no, that someone needed to defend those who weren't there to defend themselves.” Barnes paused as if unsure how to continue. “I don't remember all the situations. Most of them I can't place, but I can hear your voice saying the words. Maybe some of them aren't true memories.”

Steve shrugged. “True memories or not. They do all sound like something I would've said.”

Barnes nodded slowly, hesitantly. “So you're just an idiot, then.”

“Excuse me?” Steve bristled and was about to tear into his friend but then he caught himself. “Sorry. I'll... I might have to concede that one. Wanna clarify?”

Again that look of intense concentration settled on Bucky's face. “I won't deny that your reasoning might be sound, even if I don't remember it. So if someone did need standing up to, why would it have to be you?”

“That's not much of a clarification,” he pointed out, but received nothing more than a raised eyebrow in return. He sighed in frustration. “All right, all right. There were so many things I couldn't do. Most things, in fact. I guess I just wanted to do something, even if I couldn't. Wanted to leave a mark. Somehow.”

Barnes snorted softly and reached for the glass of water Steve had pushed in his direction. “Interesting choice of words.”

“What?”

Another sideways tilt of his head as Barnes studied him over the rim of the glass. Just like Steve would study his motif while drawing. “You really don't see the pattern, do you?”

The slight note of condescension in Barnes' voice rankled. He counted to ten. Slowly. He had been warned that the Winter Soldier didn't like him much, but had attributed it mainly to a problem of where loyalties lay. This was the first hint that it might be more than that. He wasn't sure he was ready for that. He counted to ten again. Dr. Owlahlie had told him that he could also end the conversation when he needed to; had told him that there would likely be a lot to take in. Steve had not really appreciated the warnings for what they were. When he found Barnes' eyes again, the man met him with a knowing look.

Steve swallowed and decided to grab the bull by the horns. “Tell me about the pattern.” He tried to keep his voice level, but realistically he knew he wouldn't be able to fool the observant assassin.

“You are nervous. I think you do see the pattern. But you refuse to voice it.” Steve counted to ten again and sent a grateful thought to Sam. Barnes was as good as calling him a coward. Or an idiot. It was an excellent trap, he had to admit. Either he saw the pattern, refused to voice it and was therefore a coward, or he didn't see the pattern and was an idiot. Not much of a choice, though. He didn't see a pattern – other than that Bucky had always had his back, but that was hardly what the man was talking about here. An idiot it was, then.

He wouldn't rise to the bait. He wouldn't. The Winter Soldier would not get that victory. And Steve sincerely hoped the Soldier appreciated the kind of concessions wearing his best friend's face was getting him. Instead he settled on: “You wanted me to ask questions, so I did. I can ask another, if this one bothers you.”

A cold chuckle that sent icy shivers down his spine rumbled from Barnes' throat. “The pattern, then. You take point, you always did. You leave your mark, and then the marksman finds it, finishes the job for you. As always.”

Steve blanched. That wasn't what it had been like. Was it? No, it wasn't like that. “You... no, Bucky never seemed to have a problem with it back then.”

Barnes shrugged, an oddly loose gesture for an assassin. This assassin anyway. “He didn't.” Steve noted a slight hesitation, before his friend's ghost continued. “Nothing beyond... fond exasperation? I think.”

“You're not sure...?” Steve didn't even know what he was looking for.

“I'm working with an incomplete dataset, Rogers.” The tone was dry. It was quickly becoming clear that when he wasn't actively working to employ some of Bucky's sense of humour, Barnes had very little in terms of inflection. “Ask me again, when more memories have surfaced.”

Steve winced. “That's fair. I might do that.” If he thought he could handle more conversations like this one. It was not shaping up to anything remotely like what he'd expected. Even reminiscing was weird.

“You never did explain why,” Barnes brought him back to the present.

Now he was confused again. Steve was really beginning to hate that. “Why what?”

“If you don't like getting punched – literally or otherwise – why seek it out?”

Oh, that question. “Someone had t-”

“But why did that someone have to be you?”

“No one else was doing it,” he deflected half-heartedly. His previous thoughts on what had motivated Bucky to follow him were back in force after Barnes' point about marks and marksmen.

“And neither were you. You only ever started it, knowing full well you could never finish. Someone had to do it, you keep saying, and you consistently made choices that led to Bucky being that someone. Not you. Bucky. Bucky had to do it, because you never could.”

It was nothing he hadn't already been telling himself. “Peggy... after you fell, I blamed myself for it. For having led you there, to your death. She said... she said it had been your choice to follow me. That I should respect your choice.”

Barned glared at him, now not even bothering to hide his disdain. “You were hellbent on enlisting in spite of your health making you unfit for duty. You would've been a liability for your brothers in arms, because they would have to cover for your lack of ability. Carter, being a woman, wasn't exactly drafted into service either. She must have fought even harder than you to get where she was. Two volunteers speaking of choice, that's precious.” Steve had never heard Bucky be snide like this. Sure he could be sarcastic, but this bitterness didn't belong.

“Bucky was drafted, Rogers. Drafted. There was no choice for him. Not a real one. After Azzano and some recovery there were two options for him: Back to the 107th to most likely die in an inconsequential skirmish somewhere or join up with you and have a shot at the fuckers who messed with his head. What would you have chosen in his place?”

It was the most emotion Steve had gotten from him so far. “Guess that answers one of the other questions I'd meant to ask. You joined for the opportunity for revenge.”

“And you always did excel at finding the marks.”

Steve wasn't so sure these days, and he was fairly certain there was a hint of the old sarcasm in Barnes' voice. Maybe. “You counted on me for direction...”

“Bucky was never a leader. Neither am I.” And just like that, the neutral Soldier tone was back hinting at absolutely nothing. It was unnerving.

And he had led him, them, both of him to places he shouldn't have. “I'm sorry I got you, uhh, Bucky killed.”

Barnes shook his head, and Steve could almost hear him roll his eyes – except that he didn't. “You keep telling me, I didn't kill all those people, because it was Hydra pulling my strings. I did kill them. I didn't make me what I was, or am, Hydra did. But whatever it is that I am, I killed them. On Hydra's orders, yes, but I killed them. Just like I killed German soldiers and Hydra soldiers on your orders and Colonel... ” He trailed off.

“Phillips,” Stece supplied. “Colonel Chester Phillips.” He was confused about where this was going and decided not to comment further.

Barnes continued unbothered by the discomfort Steve was certain must be visible on his face. “You didn't start the war. In war people die. Soldiers especially. We were a unit of soldiers carrying out the assignments we were given. We had some say in how we did it, sure, the privilege of being an elite squad, but we didn't choose to wage war. We were sent by others to do so. We were given orders. Did Bucky kill German soldiers on your orders? Or did you kill them? If you insist that Hydra killed the people, who died by The Winter Soldier's hand, then you can add my kill count from the war to your own, because I see no difference.”

“That's different! Your mind wasn't your own!”

Barnes drained his glass of water before he opened his mouth to answer. “The Winter Soldier's mind wasn't Bucky's. But both of them are me. I already told you this. And it is exactly the same from where I'm sitting. You might not want to accept it, but those are the facts. Deal with it.”

The finality in Bucky's voice was so unfamiliar, Steve had no idea what to do with it. He didn't like it one bit. The Bucky he knew had disagreed with many of the things he did, but he had never spoken with any such authoritative convinction. It was foreign and uncomfortable, and he wanted it to stop.

“Besides,” Barnes continued unaffected by the protests Steve was about to mount, “I chose to join your Commandos. Chances are, I would've died in that war no matter what. Joining up with you gave me the best shot at revenge I was likely to get.”

Steve nodded, relieved that he had at least guessed correctly about the revenge motivation. “Guess I can understand that. It's strange to hear you say it. You never seemed the vengeful type before.” The haunted look that flitted across his friend's features made him regret his words instantly.

Barnes quickly schooled his expression, though. “I hadn't been tortured before then. I hadn't been at war before then either. Has it never occurred to you that war changes people?”

Steve shrugged. It hadn't really changed him. “You said it yourself. Back in '43. I'm still the little guy from Brooklyn, who's too dumb to run away from a fight.”

Barnes looked at him. For a long time he just sat there and looked. Studied him. “I think, I need to stop this now. The Soldier's getting... restless.”

“Shit. Of course. Don't wanna put anyone in danger.”

A muscle in Bucky's jaw jumped. “Right.” He placed the empty glass on the table. “Don't get up, when I do. Instincts going a little nuts right now, and I don't want to risk you being marked as a threat, just because you stand up.”

He acknowledged it with a nod. He really hoped Shuri could find a way to get that damned Hydra programming out of Bucky's head. This was completely ridiculous, and he hated that it was necessary.

“Uhh, Buck? Sorry, I mean, Barnes. I'm flying out again tomorrow afternoon. If there's anything more you need to tell me, find me before then.”

Bucky nodded and got to his feet. “Have you answered Stark yet?”

“No.” It hadn't been nearly as important. As in not important at all. Stark was a self-involved blowhard.

“Why not? We agreed, I would prepare for this, and you would answer Stark.”

Steve didn't understand why Bucky seemed so upset about that. It's not like he knew the man. “Look, if it's so important to you, I'll text him next time I'm here for a visit.” He'd be damned if he was going to ruin his last 24 hours in this paradise with thoughts of the arrogant billionaire.

The inscrutable look Bucky leveled at him would have been unnerving if he didn't know the man. As it was, he was just puzzled as to why Bucky seemed to take such an interest in Stark of all people. The man had tried to kill him.

“How long until you're back?”

“Should only be a week, maybe two.”

Bucky nodded and headed for the door without comment or even a parting word.

* * * * *

Their next conversation was after he'd returned. Steve was worried about Bucky. His friend hadn't even sought him out to see him off. It wasn't like him. But now Steve was back in Wakanda for another visit with his recovering friend. As usual he'd left Sam and Nat in a safehouse. One of Nat's that SHIELD had never known about. In other words: still safe. The Avengers job was hard without the backing of a solid HQ and a tech department, but they were doing alright, and as long as Stark was so focused on controling everybody's lives he wasn't about to go back. He'd rather work with fewer ressources than be prevented from doing any work at all by stupid bureaucracy.

He headed to the suite they shared. Bucky hadn't yet put much of a personal touch on the rooms, but he had probably been busy with his recovery. Personal touches could wait. His health was definitely more important. This time Bucky was the one to initiate the conversation, when they were seated at the dinign table. “There were boxing tournaments,” he said out of the blue, after having poured tea for the both of them.

“You remember those! That's great!” His excitement about the good news made it easier to hide his dislike of the strange reddish-coloured tea. He didn't remember what it was called, just that the young princess was partial to it. That's probably how Bucky had picked up the habit. The two of them must spend quite a lot of time together. Steve was sure that was a good thing. A source of positivity like Shuri had to be healthy for Bucky to be around – even if his taste in beverage had become a little weird.

Bucky quirked the corner of his mouth. “Not sure I have it all yet. No, I'm absolutely sure I don't have it all. Just remember flashes from training at Goldie's and there being tournaments. Bloody noses and split lips in a mostly non-hostile context. Makes it stand out from all the other... yeah.” He shrugged. “It's vague still.”

Steve didn't even try to hide his grin. This was great news indeed. “You were a Champion.”

“I was? Huh...” Bucky looked at the caramel liquid in his glass as he swirled it around. Steve waited with baited breath for him to continue. “Welterweight... is that right?”

“It sure is.” Steve was practically giddy with excitement. Boxing had been such a huge part of Bucky's youth. He'd been good at it, had even trained some of the kids. Heck, he'd trained Steve before his first attempt at enlistment.

“Think I might have to go up a weight class or five. Even without the arm.” The quirked lip turned into a full-fledged smirk, which made Steve far happier than he should let it. This was Bucky shining through, and he would savour those moments. And hope that it wasn't just for show as it had been before. Maybe Shuri had really made a breakthrough, while he was gone.

“Yeah,” Steve chuckled as he spoke. “If you wanna get into boxing again, you might want to look into getting a new one. Stark does kinda owe you a replacement.”

Bucky sent him a sharp look and his entire posture stiffened. “No, Steve...”

Steve held up a hand. “Hey, relax. It's fine. We're not going anywhere near the man until you feel ready, and we're sure he won't try to kill you again.”

The doubtful look on his friend's face lasted for several minutes, before he looked away, shook his head a little as if to clear his thoughts. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Sorry. Did you text him yet?”

“No,” Steve scoffed. “And I'm not going to get in touch with him before you're ready.”

Bucky looked at him with an expression Steve couldn't decipher. “Stark reached out. He offered us amnesty in this compound of yours under the government radar. He deserves a reply. Even if we won't be seeing him for a while yet.”

“Amnesty is the least he could offer, after he tried to kill us, Bu- Barnes,” he pointed out. “Don't let his charity schtick fool you. He grew up a billionaire, he's very good at manipulating other people's opinion of him. Don't let him get to you.”

Bucky grunted and looked into his tea glass. Whatever guidance his friend needed to navigate the world he'd been thrown into Steve would give it, and avoiding the machinations and manipulations of the genius who seemed to think the world couldn't function without him was definitely a priority.

The two of them had not fought against fascism all those years ago, just to let government officials and their rich lapdogs instate the same kind of control. Especially not if that control was aimed specifically at smaller groups of people. No, these efforts to control enhanced individuals definitely sounded far too much like exactly the kind of atrocity they'd gone to war against.

“You really believe he was trying to kill us?” Bucky's voice was quiet. He sounded sad and Steve couldn't blame him. Waking up in a foreign place, confused as to what's going on had been bad enough for him, and he had been safe in a comfortable bed. Bucky had started waking up in the middle of a fight, and had to fight a part of himself while everyone was trying to kill him. That could make anyone sad, he figured, and he despised Stark just that little bit more for adding to Bucky's pain.

“You said it yourself,” Steve reminded him. “He would've wiped the floor with us, if there hadn't been two of us and only one of him. I'm not too proud to admit that even two against one it was a close call. That suit of his makes him a serious threat. But once it's been disabled, he's not worth much. And he knows it.” Steve had told him as much on several occasions. Advised him to learn to fight even without the suit. Not that Stark had really listened. He wasn't one to take direction from anyone.

Bucky nodded but didn't respond. Not at first anyway. The muscles in his jaw twitched at irregular intervals until he finally drew breath to say something. “Steve... I'm not really getting any better.”

He disagreed. “Sure you are. You look much healthier than when we first came here.”

He received an eyeroll for his comment. “Yeah, physically I'm doing good. They feed me well. Shuri sometimes needs to remind me to eat, but I'm getting better at remembering. It's not that. It's my head.”

Steve's heart sank. “What do you mean? I thought you were making progress...?”

“I am. But I'm also... not.” The look his friend sent him was heartrending. The helplessness overwhelming.

“Buck...” Bucky flinched at the sound of his old name and Steve felt an intense urge to punch the people who did this to his friend through several layers of reinforced concrete. “Sorry. I keep forgetting. I'll remember. Talk to me, Barnes, what's going on? What can I do?”

The look he received was one laden with guilt. “I don't know. Nobody here does. We're all trying to figure this out, but all the time, there are two sets of conflicting memories in my head, and I'm just so exhausted from trying to sort it all out. I feel like just going to sleep and not wake up for a month, but even in my dreams everything's a mess. Some mornings I wake up with no idea at all who I am. Or where...” He shook his head slowly. “And the nightmares keep me from sleeping as much as I should; as much as I need. And that's not exactly making it any better.” Bucky shook his head.

“Whatever you need, Bu- Barnes. We'll find a way.”

“I dunno,” Bucky sighed. “It started out well enough and I'm remembering more things all the time, but I'm not really getting it sorted the way we were hoping I could. And as long as that's not happening, we can't move on to dealing with the triggers. For that I'd need to be well-rested at the very least, and I don't even think I remember being that.”

He had an idea. “What about Wanda?”

Bucky lifted his head. “Wanda? Who? Oh, the redhead with the weird telekinesis? She was at the airport with us?”

“That's her. She was with Sam, Nat, Scott, Clint and me while you were in cryo, but she's gone back to the compound. I can contact her and ask her if she can help.”

His suggestion was met with a frown. “How would she be able to do that? What can she do?”

“Well, I'm not entirely sure,” Steve admitted. “She explained it as, she can get into people's heads and suggest things to them to make them think differently.”

Bucky's eyes widened and he gaped slightly. “You have a mind-control... telepath... person, running around with you?”

“Not anymore. She missed Vision and felt really bad about everything, so she went back to the compound. I hope she doesn't sign the Accords. There's no telling what they'd do to someone with powers like hers.”

Bucky hadn't stopped staring. “Steve, people have been manipulating and messing with my head for decades. How can you even think it's a good idea to do more of it?”

He shrugged helplessly. “I don't know if it's a good idea. Sometimes you gotta fight fire with fire, right? And I don't even know if she **can** help, but she knows stuff about the mind and manipulation of it, so maybe we can at least ask her if she has an idea? I mean, there's no harm in asking, right?”

“I... guess not.” Bucky didn't sound convinced. “And she's in the compound with Stark?”

Oh darn, he'd forgotten about that part. “Don't worry about that. We'll figure something out. I'll contact her and see what our options are. For now we just need to ask her for ideas, input.”

“Steve. Don't tell her anything about what the problem is.”

“But, she'll need to know what it's about in order to help.”

Bucky pinned him with a glare. No, Bucky would have rolled his eyes. This was the Soldier glaring at him. “Do not tell her anything. You can tell her you need her help, and you can set up a time for me to talk to her, but do not tell her a single damn thing. If I do decide to go through with it, I'll need Shuri to set up a secure line. This is not something I want to risk anyone listening in on.”

Right. He hadn't thought of that.

“Besides, I want to decide for myself whether I want to trust her with this.”

“You can trust her. She's a good kid.”

“I understand that **you** trust her. And that's your decision. I need to make my own. Please respect that.”

“Of course... I just-”

“Steve. Don't. Just don't.”

He would contact Wanda and see if she would be available for a consultation.

* * * * *

The next conversation they had was several weeks later and ended up being everything he'd feared.

Steve was shocked at how bad things were. Bucky looked like hell as he sat there in the couch, and Steve felt terrible for having gone with Sam and Nat to Indonesia to take down another Hydra hold-out. Though Bucky was physically in reasonable health, his lack of sleep was taking its toll even on his serum-enhanced body. His eyes were sunken, cheeks hollow and his skin seemed waxy and grey despite the suntan he had developed since last Steve saw him.

There was no tea this time, but it didn't escape his notice that there was an empty bottle of vodka by the kitchen sink. And one next to the couch, where Bucky sat. Also empty. Yeah, things weren't great. Steve had hardly even approached, before Bucky cut straight to the chase.

“I spoke to Wanda. And thank you for setting it up.”

“Of course. It was nothing,” Steve assured him, surreptitiously glancing around to see if there were more bottles or other causes for concern.

“She doesn't know where to even begin. I have to respect her for admitting that,” Bucky told him tonelessly.

That was terrible news. “But she can get into people's heads. Can't she get into yours and remove those words? Or the meanings of them? Or something?”

Bucky shook his head, looking far more calm than Steve understood he could be. He soon found himself pacing while Bucky explained. “Maybe she can, but she doesn't know how. I know I was skeptical about her at first, but I have to admit, she's a lot more sane than I would have expected from one of my fellow Hydra-experiments. She doesn't know how, and she doesn't want to just go poking about in my head without knowing what she's doing.”

Steve didn't fully understand why that would be a problem. How else would you learn anything? “But she's been in people's heads before. I know she can do that. Did Stark get to her? Tell her she's not allowed to help?”

“No, he didn't. She was adamant that he knew nothing of our conversation, and even if he did, he hadn't attempted to influence it. But you're right, she's been in people's heads, and I did ask her what she did, but in true Hydra-fashion, she had only been trained to use her powers for destructive purposes. She has only pushed people to do things before. Not something as delicate as removing triggers like mine.” Bucky poked his forehead with a finger.

“But can't she figure it out? She's a bright young lady, I'm sure she can do it,” Steve insisted.

Bucky just shook his head. “Look, I can only repeat back to you the explanation she gave me. What she has learned to do is like walking into someone's living room, spot the place of honour, like the mantelpiece or something, grab whatever prized portraits and knick-knacks you find there and trash it all in order to sow fear, grief and rage in the victim.” He paused and Steve nodded.

That description did fit pretty well with what she'd put them through the first time they met. None of them had been particularly interested in sharing what she'd made them see, but it made sense.

Bucky continued: “Anyway, finding the place of honour is easy, because it's right there in plain sight. Finding my triggers would be more like having to figure out where in the house the cat shed 9 very specific hairs three weeks ago.”

Steve snorted at the analogy and continued his pacing. He would probably need a sandbag or five before he went anywhere else after this. “That's ridiculous. It would be impossible. Three weeks later they wouldn't even be in the place they were shed.”

When he had made another pass around the room and looked back at Bucky, he found a completely calm and resigned man looking back at him. “That was exactly her point, Steve. And that's not even covering how to deal with them if she did manage to find them by a stroke a pure luck. She said she wouldn't have a clue how to even start, and she doesn't want to mess me up worse than I am. I gotta say, I appreciate that sentiment.”

Steve sank down in the arm chair in the corner. Wanda had been his best hope of helping Bucky. He was fresh out of ideas.

“The one good thing about my talk with her,” Bucky added, “was that she was absolutely willing to help, if only she had a clue how. So she said she would start looking into things; read up on psychology and trauma, that sort of thing, see if that might give her an idea. She would let me, Shuri or Dr. Owlahlie know if she came up with something remotely plausible.” And then he grimaced. “But she also told me to not hold my breath.”

“That's fair,” Steve conceded. He truly did appreciate Wanda's caution. She didn't want to hurt people, but dammit he had hoped for more than just another friend hitting the books. “So what's on the cards now?”

Bucky sighed. It was strained. “That's the other thing I have to tell you.”

That didn't sound good. “What is it?”

“I'm going back into cryo.”

“What? But you're not getting better there either.”

Bucky held up a hand to stay his protests and he clenched his teeth to stop himself. “I know. But at least I won't get any worse, either. And right now, I'm getting so little sleep that I am actually getting worse. I'm not really sleeping, I keep losing time, suddenly finding myself in places I don't recall going to, I'm pretty sure I've had some mild hallucinations as well the last few days.”

And to Steve it was worse how Bucky could just list off symptoms of that caliber with a steady, neutral voice like they were a grocery list. “Dammit, Buck, I didn't realise...”

His friend just nodded. “If I begin to really lose control, while the dormant Winter Soldier programming can still activate...”

Steve felt sick to his stomach but found no words.

“Let's just say that, while I have accepted the Soldier as part of who I am now; more cynical and calculating than you remember me to be, I still have to be able to control it. If I lose control again, I have told T'Challa that he should feel no guilt over having to put me down.”

“What?!?” Steve couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Bucky just shrugged. “Face it, Steve. If I'm not in control of me, I'm a danger to everyone around me. We're all dangerous. You, me, T'Challa, Wanda, Stark, but we can talk about things. If I can't be certain that my choices won't ever be taken from me again, then it has to be the end of the line. Right there. That's really all there is to it.”

Steve swallowed thickly. “When are you going back under?”

“After you leave for your next mission.”

“But that's in two days!”

“I know.” Bucky's smile wasn't even bitter. If Steve had to be perfectly honest, it seemed like he was actively looking forward to it.

All of a sudden the empty bottles made a lot of sense to Steve, and he was sure there'd be more of them than just the two he'd spotted.

 


	5. Dissolution

“Sergeant Barnes, you do not owe him any information about your progress nor your proces,” Dr. Owlahlie assured him unnecessarily. The soft spoken Wakandan psychiatrist had been a staple of his life ever since he'd come out of cryo, and he was beginning to realize that he would actually miss the sessions he'd had with him every other day for several months now.

“I know, doc. At least rationally, I do.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “It's a bit more complicated than that.”

“It always is. My words were merely meant to bolster your resolve.”

“Thanks, doc. Consider it bolstered. I feel like I owe him explanations for all he's done for me. And at the same time the episodes I have after he leaves speak for themselves.” He shook his head, genuinely sad that the person most adamant on helping was actively counteracting his recovery. It seemed God or the Fates or the Ancestors or whoever was in charge of these things had it out for him. Or had a really fucked-up sense of humour. One he'd probably appreciate if it wasn't interfering with his health.

“As much as I do not like to let a patient go before they have achieved a certain degree of recovery, I do believe you are doing the right thing.”

He nodded, grateful for having the blessing of a professional in the field. Even if there weren't really any kind of specialists when it came to his particular problem. “You've been a great help, doc.”

“I am glad to hear it, Sergeant Barnes. With how unprecedented your case is, it has been a challenge to be of assistance. Would you like me to write up a report on what we've been over? For your next therapist to start from, or would you prefer to start fresh with someone new?”

He hadn't even considered it. “I think that would depend on the therapist and how they suggest we work with all of this. So, uhh, I guess that's a yes, thank you. It might be needed.”

The doctor nodded pensively. “Of course. A wise course of action. Has Dr. Stark not let you know who your next therapist will be? I might confer directly with them.”

“Nah, he's doing really thorough background checks on them before he'll allow any of them near me or my case. He's about as paranoid as I am. It's... weirdly comforting.”

The doctor chuckled lowly. “Maybe he's paranoid, maybe he's anticipating your paranoia. Whichever the case may be, I am glad you find it to your taste. It bodes well for your co-operation with him.”

He could only agree with that assessment.

* * * * *

“All right, Cap. Talk to me. You've been moping ever since you got here. What's up?”

“Nothing. Don't worry about it, Sam.”

“I don't worry about **it**. I worry about **you**. And if it were nothing, you wouldn't be moping.”

“I'm not moping. Just let it go.”

“Steve, you're absolutely moping.” Both of them startled at the sound of Natasha's voice. Neither of them had heard her enter. “Listen to him. He knows what he's about.”

“Thank you, Romanov. Come on, Cap, it's eating you up. You gotta talk about it.”

“I doubt it'll help anyway.”

“Cap. Remember how skeptical you were about that group I was heading, before you went with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah? And...?”

“Dammit, Sam. A group for people with shared experiences will hardly be possible for this.”

“So what's up with Barnes?”

Steve sighed. “He's getting worse again. He's going back into cryo.”

“Damn. Sorry to hear that, man.”

“I feel like it was all for nothing, you know?”

“Hasn't he gotten better?”

“Yeah, and then he took a turn for the worse.”

“So they're just doing what they did first. Giving him a rest, while they figure out other options to offer him, yeah?”

“That's one way of putting it, I guess.”

  
  


* * * * *

James Buchanan Barnes played the video Stark sent them. Again. It was several months old. From before they took him out of cryo.

It was a split screen recording of a vid call between Stark and Secretary Ross. The general turned Secretary of Defense who wanted to contain and control enhanced individuals so badly.

“Stark, any luck in finding them?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep looking. I want them in custody.”

“Ross, I have not been authorized by the Council to search for them, much less to bring them in, especially not on foreign soil. Violating the Accords I went to bat for would be rather stupid of me.”

“I don't care, I want them brought in, and I know you can do it, so I'm telling you to do it.”

“One, I'm not military but rather a civilian. You have no direct authority to command me to do anything. Unless you want something done on American soil, you need to go through the Accords Council. Two, being a civilian I have no strategic training for anything like this. I build weapons and armor and I use them to blast aliens and other monsters out of the sky – or I defend myself against people who attack me first – I do not take the initiative against people. Three, most of the Rogues I counted as my friends until very recently. Even I don't know how I'd react when faced with them; whether I'd even be able to do anything. Remember, no real training here, I play by ear. Four, if I do decide to help you, referring to point one, I'd be doing you one hell of a huge favor in violating the Accords that you are in support of. Is that really what you're asking me? And five, if you want me to do this favor for you and bring them in, give me something I can offer them, because even though I was blindsided by their antagonistic attitudes, I do know them well enough to know they won't come back if I just ask nicely, and I'm not bringing another fight to this mess.”

“Stark...” Ross' voice had lowered threateningly, but Stark appeared unaffected.

Civilian or not, negotiations with hostiles clearly wasn't foreign territory to Stark. “Unless of course this conversation never happened, and you've never asked me to do anything.”

“I want them back here,” Ross re-iterated.

“So this conversation **is** happening, and you're perfectly willing to violate the Accords and bully me into violating them as well, proving how necessary they really are to protect the world from people like you having authority over people like me. Ohhhh, my dear Secretary Ross, I would think carefully about my next move, then.” He'd watched the video several times now, and he chuckled at this part every time.

“Dammit, Stark.”

“Face it, Ross. Big guns won't solve this. What are you prepared to offer them? Although I do find it demeaning, I am willing to do you the **favor** of being your errand boy – **if** I manage to find them.”

The old military man scowled and grumbled. “What do they want?”

Stark's feigned surprise was painfully obvious to one trained to observe people for weaknesses, but clearly Ross hadn't caught on. “I wouldn't know. We're not exactly on good terms at the moment. Like I said, they took me by surprise as well. Guess I don't know them as well as I thought I did.”

“You gotta have something, Stark. You always do.”

Stark's pretense at pondering something would have been hilarious, if it weren't two men discussing the future lives of the people who had fought to help him and Steve escape.

“Well, one of them – Ant-Man – a quick search tells me he has a daughter. He's been behind bars before, and apparently a main motivation for his good behavior and getting back out was her. Pretty sure he'll want to come back. He might accept something like house arrest. You can keep an eye on him then.”

“Oh come on, Stark. Like house arrest will contain an enhanced human.”

“But that's it, Ross. He's not enhanced. Like me, he's just a guy in a suit; a somewhat younger and less tired guy in a suit, but you get the idea. Without the suit he's just a man. Same goes for Hawkeye. Also just a man – an extremely skilled man, who's frightening good at what he does, but still not enhanced. Without his gear, house arrest might be acceptable to him, if he gets to go home.”

“And the others? That ex-Soviet spy, Black Widow, she isn't enhanced either, is she?”

“No idea. Your guess is as good as mine. But unlike the others she has nothing tying her to the States. I'm not sure she has anything she considers home, so you might need to offer more than the chance to just come back. She can establish a life pretty much anywhere, if I'm not much mistaken.”

“And Wilson?”

“I don't know him at all. Don't even know why he came to Rogers' aid. Can't help you there.”

Ross fell silent for a while and Stark apparently took that as an opening to continue.

“Should I assume you would like for me to attempt to establish a line of communication with them rather than try to catch them? That **would** make my work a lot easier.”

Ross glared. “Do it.”

“On it. Let's see if they're interested.”

James lowered the tablet as the video ended. Steve had told him with barely contained glee that Scott and Clint had gotten their wishes and been able to return to their families. He hadn't mentioned that it had been Stark's doing. Perhaps he didn't even know. The main take-away from the video for James, however, had to be the fact that Stark wasn't military. He would have expected him to be affiliated with the army like Stark Sr. had been, but apparently not. Surprisingly, the Accords that Steve and the others had been so concerned about – and not entirely unjustified as far as James could tell – were the very documents that Stark had been using for months to avoid being sent after them guns blazing. They definitely weren't aware of that.

* * * * *

“I need him, Sam. I feel lost without him at my back or watching over me from his perch.”

“God, I know that feeling,” Nat chimed in. “I miss having Clint's watchful eyes up high. My discomfort about that is completely outweighed by the fact that he gets to be with his family, though.”

“You believe he's with them?” Steve asked. “That they've dealt square with him?”

“I know it,” the formidable redhead answered simply before she left the two men to their conversation. They had no reason to doubt her intel.

“Cap, you gotta let it go, man. You've done all you could for him. The rest will be up to others and himself.”

“But it wasn't enough. I didn't get him back.”

“Yeah you did. Just because he's not exactly how you remember him, doesn't mean you didn't get him back.”

“But he's back in cryo. Like none of it even mattered.”

“Sometimes you're an idiot, Cap.”

“What?”

“Come on, really? I ain't got a clue what it's like going into cryo, but let's pretend it's like going to sleep. Wouldn't you rather do that knowing you have friends and allies looking for ways to help you? I'd say that's one hell of an improvement from before.”

The formerly confident Captain America hung his head and shook it. “I don't know, Sam. It doesn't feel like it's enough. Or good enough. I owe it to him to do better than this.”

“For someone who spent seventy years on ice, you sure are in one hell of a hurry. I know you wanna fix everything and do it yesterday, but this ain't special ops with a deadline. Sometimes it's the long haul. From what you say, Barnes seems committed to a slow, intense effort. You can't do it for him. Let him do the work he needs to do at the pace he needs to take. This shit can't be forced. Believe me, Cap, I've seen what happens if you try.”

* * * * *

The Winter Soldier sat on the hospital bed. Everything seemed wrong. Work on the arm was never done under anesthesia and he certainly never got to lie in a comfortable bed. He knew the people around him now were kind and mindful of his comfort. He knew they would keep the procedure painless. He knew he wouldn't feel a thing until they woke him up again, and even then they would employ the detailed pain management they had devised for his enhanced physique. He knew everything would be all right. He knew Steve Rogers was his friend and had brought him to people he could trust with his safety.

He knew.

Every single data point he had so far confirmed that he would not be harmed.

He knew.

Every single instinct in him waited for the other shoe to drop.

A doctor entered the room. He managed to conceal his flinch at the sight of the woman in the white coat.

“Sergeant Barnes, are you read to take a long nap?”

He nodded. He had already committed to this, there was no need to ask him. But he understood that it was a light-hearted bedside manner intended to calm nervous patients. He wasn't nervous about the procedure. From what he could tell, the medical and and tech teams in Wakanda were far more skilled than any other that had ever gotten their hands on him. There was no reason to be nervous. Aside from the inevitable realization that he would once again be sent to do someone's bidding without a say in it.

He should probably say something to the doctor before he managed to make her so concerned for his well-being that she would decide the cancel the procedure. He knew where to search for those skills and dug deep.

With a wink and a smile he told her: “Sure thing, doc. It'll be more sleep than I've had the last three weeks combined. If it's as restful as it sounds on paper, I'll probably be able to grow an extra arm with all the energy. You'll see.”

It made her laugh, and he readily held out his arm for the insertion of the venflon.

* * * * *

“What did I do wrong?”

“You gotta be a bit more specific than that, Cap.”

“Did I ruin his chances? By getting us in so much trouble?”

“I dunno, man. I **do** know that worrying about what-ifs and what could've beens ain't worth a damn. You gotta look ahead.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't dwell in the past and all that. Kinda hard, when most of your life is in the past.”

“... did you hear what you just said?”

“Come on, Sam, you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know. Not sure **you** do, though.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I've seen a lot of different reactions to war, trauma and loss, Cap.”

“The bed's-too-soft-speech again? Save it. I remember.”

“I know you do. Did you understand it?”

“When you're used to living rough, it's hard to adapt to the comforts of home. Pretty simple.”

“Yeah, but that's only part of it. You spend a lot of time dwelling on what you could've done differently. What you should've done. All of that.”

“Yeah, trying to learn from my mistakes. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Nope. If only that's what you were doing, but it's not. That's just what you're telling yourself. Guilt is your problem, Cap.”

“Feeling guilty for having messed up isn't exactly wrong. And I know you don't think so, Sam. What are you getting at?”

“You're feeling guilty for messes that aren't yours, and it's driving you to do things you don't need to, and to take on responsibilities you aren't ready for.”

“Sam...”

“I'm not trying to knock you down, Cap. But you're not just dwelling on the past. You're living in it. And that makes you unable to make clear-headed decisions in the present. I suspected it earlier, but Barnes showing up again really hammered it home. You've dropped everything you've built in the present, the figurative soft bed, to prioritize someone from your past without knowing the slightest bit about **his** present. Because the present isn't your present, you still view it – all of us – as a future, as something that's just potential, hypothetical. You don't really register consequences as fully real. I don't think you experience yourself as fully real.”

The silence spoke for itself.

> * * * * *
> 
> You: Hey Tony. How is everyone?
> 
> Stark: Clint is still not talking to me, but Wanda has gone to visit, and she tells me he's looking a lot better than he has in a while. Laura and the little ones are very happy to have him around more.
> 
> You: And I take it you still haven't told him you're financing everything.
> 
> Stark: Why would I? It wouldn't make him hate me any less. And if it would, I'd want it even less.
> 
> You: And Wanda?
> 
> Stark: I'm not sure. She's coping, learning, training. And leaning a lot on Vision, who seems surprisingly okay, too. She's trying to reach out, but I'm not really sure how to handle that. She still gives me the jitters. Seems to know that. Not sure whether that's a good or bad thing.
> 
> You: You don't like anyone seeing your weak points.
> 
> Stark: Like you're any different.
> 
> You: That's fair.
> 
> Stark: Lang is back in San Francisco. They've got the feds keeping tabs on him. He seems to be doing okay, though I don't really know him well enough to tell.
> 
> You: And Rhodes?
> 
> Stark: He's walking with the braces I built for him, but I'm working with a specialist to actually see about fixing his spine. It's very experimental, and I've told him he's not obligated to go through with it. Braces are safe, spinal cord surgery is not, even if I can afford the best.
> 
> You: But how is he doing?
> 
> Stark: Good. He's good. I swear he's one of the most forgiving men, I've ever known. He'd have to be, to have put up with me for so many years. How are you holding up? The boys behaving?
> 
> You: Sam is really homesick. He's staying solely because someone needs to help Steve hold it together.
> 
> Stark: Steve seems to inspire that kind of devotion in people. Wonder how he does it.
> 
> You: If I knew, I'd copy it. I'm just staying to keep them out of trouble. And to make sure Steve doesn't get Sam into too much trouble. Not too worried, though. Sam has a handle on Steve, I think.
> 
> Stark: He must be the only one, then.
> 
> You: How's Spider-man?
> 
> Stark: Still anonymous and well.
> 
> You: Good. Still no sign of Bruce?
> 
> Stark: None. Sorry.
> 
> You: And how will you manage with James?
> 
> Stark: ???
> 
> You: Don't give me that crap, Tony. His secret's safe with me. I know you've offered your help. Steve's been told he's going back in cryo. I know better. There's no way he'd do that if he has other options, Steve's opinion of those options be damned.
> 
> Stark: One day you're gonna tell me how you found out.
> 
> You: Maybe. But not today. You didn't answer my question.
> 
> Stark: I hope BARF can help him. And I've cautiously reached out to some therapists with relevant specializations. Gotten a few too many no's, though. And I've had to refuse some offers, too. There's no way I'm having him restrained for therapy. Not with his background.
> 
> You: I meant you. How will you manage?
> 
> Stark: I'll manage.
> 
> You: Will you be all right?
> 
> Stark: I'll manage.
> 
> You: I've been really wrong about you, Tony.
> 
> Stark: There's a lot of that going around. I've been really wrong about me, too. Take care. Miss Romanov.

* * * * *

He hated coming out of cryo. He was groggy, but the murmur of pain in his shoulder gave him something to focus on as he clawed his way back to consciousness. Slowly it dawned on him that he wasn't in cryo. Hadn't been. He was much too warm and the stinging burn in his veins from the defrosting was markedly absent. What was going on?

Focus on the pain. The only pain he really felt was that in his left shoulder. That was unusual. He was used to hurting all over. It was usually only a matter of what hurt the most. This was... comfortable. Aside from his shoulder. Where the hell was he and what was going on? Focus, focus, wake up and figure out what's going on.

His shoulder buzzed with pain. Not as much as normal. It was annoying, but bearable. He tried to take stock, figure out the localization of it. Front to back, his skin... didn't hurt. That was strange. If he'd been unconscious and not because of cryo, there were only two explanations: wipe or work on the arm. Wipes always left his skin itchy and painful for a few days, but there was nothing. Just... nothing. It occurred to him that if he'd been wiped, he shouldn't be able to remember the results of previous wipes. That explanation was definitely out of the question.

Work on the arm, then. They usually didn't bother to knock him out for it, just strapped him in and did what they wanted. He tried moving his right arm. It felt heavier than it should. And slower. But with some effort he could drag it up and scratch his nose. Then the left. He braced himself for the up-tick in pain using the arm always triggered. He started with just curling his fingers into a fist. Yeah, there it was. The pain increased, though not as much as he'd expected. Had they actually improved the arm to cause him less pain? That seemed very out of character. Unlikely. Probably just a side-effect of whatever they had done.

He struggled to slide his right hand to his left shoulder. No, the skin there still wasn't sore. Not even a little bit. He felt along the seam. Everything seemed normal. He slid his fingers out along the shoulder. There it was. That was different. Smoother. They had definitely changed something.

He struggled to open his eyes. Through his eyelids he sensed that the room was well-lit, so he was ready for the sharp sting of light as it hit his pupils. It wasn't so much that the room was well-lit, there were no lights on at all, but bright sunlight was streaming through a large window a few feet from his bed. Wait. Bed? That was new as well. White walls, a window, a bed with real sheets on it, and unusually small amounts of pain. He lifted the left hand to get a look at it.

Dark, sleek metal with a matte sheen and delicately crafted plates, much narrower and more numerous than those of the old one. He flexed his fingers, admiring how the plates of the forearm shifted almost like the muscles of his right arm would have. The fingertips were rounded, like real fingers. Not like the blocky rectangular ends with corners and edges sharp enough to almost cut glass. There had never been concerns about the aesthetics of their weapon before, clearly Hydra was not the ones to give him this. Dimly, he registered how unusual it was for him to have time to admire the craftsmanship of anything at all.

He strained to gather the appropriate memories. He needed to know where he was and with whom. What was his standing with them? Still just a weapon? No, that didn't feel right. There was more now. He was more. He had... run? Escaped? Yeah, escaped. He'd made a friend. No, he'd met a friend. An old friend. Since when did he have friends? Old friends. He couldn't have been free of them long enough to have old friends. It had to be from before. Before. What was before? Old friend from... Brooklyn. Steve. Steve had found him. Helped him. Gotten him away. There had been a fight. The man in the red and gold... Ironman. Tony Stark. Son of... oh no. He'd gone down. Steve had, oh no no no, oh wait... oh thank god. While not entirely all right, they'd all left alive.

That was why he had a new arm now. Howard Stark's son had blown the old one off. The one that had killed the man. There was a certain satisfying symmetry to that, he reflected, somewhat detached. So who had given him the new one. Friends of Steve's? And his, he realized moments later. The man whose father he had been unjustly accused of killing had taken him in. A king. Jesus Christ, who'd've thought an amateur boxer from Brooklyn would make friends with a king? A king who also happened to be enhanced, much like himself, not to mention wise beyond his years.

And the king's sister. Shuri! That was it. She's the one who gave him the new arm! And when he was recovered enough to be out and about he was going to... holy mother o' god, what had he been thinking? Had he been thinking at all? Tony Stark! The man who had every reason to kill him. Had come reasonably close, too. Why would he go to him? Why would the man want him anywhere near unless it was finish the job?

The real question was: did he want him to?

He looked at the new hand. It was a thing of beauty. Not something that really belonged anywhere near the likes of him. But he had two hands again. That would make life a lot easier. Except for the fact that he'd apparently agreed to continuing his life in the Avengers compound under Tony Stark's supervision. Relying on Tony Stark's help.

As his memories slowly returned through the sluggish waters of sedation, he could answer most of his own questions. Despite the younger Stark having every reason to hate his guts, he was also his best chance at recovery. The man's motivations for offering his help were still a bit of a mystery, though, and he had no means to predict what might happen, when he arrived. If it were just a ruse to kill him, it seemed oddly elaborate, and their awkward truce from Siberia had seemed genuine enough on all sides. But why anyone except his old friend from Brooklyn would even want to help the likes of him was beyond him.

He definitely didn't deserve it.

* * * * *

“It is good that he will be out of here soon. Less risk of a diplomatic incident.”

“Mm hm.”

“But you will miss him.”

“He has been a perfect gentleman and a surprisingly good conversationalist.”

“Is that so?”

“You're not fooling me, brother, you also like him.”

“I do. He is honorable. At least part of him is. I can only hope that part will remain strong during his recovery.”

“It will. I just know it.”

“And your opinion is perfectly unbiased, yes?”

“You said it,” Shuri laughed and punched her brother gently on the arm.

“I hope you're right, because if not, his friend the Captain will not appreciate what Stark will have to do.”

“Dr. Stark is aware of that, and he accepts the risks. I don't think he believes it is possible to salvage things with Captain Rogers anyway.”

“And do you? Believe the two of them can be friends again?”

“I don't know. I think Dr. Stark wants to, but I don't know if he'll be able to trust again. And he seems convinced that the Captain isn't interested in patching things up anyway.”

“Do you not think the help he extends to Sergeant Barnes is an attempt at that?”

“No. If anything, he has a better understanding than the Captain of the fact that the two of them are separate people despite their shared history.”

“Captain Rogers is not unaware of this, sister.”

“I know he isn't. He just sometimes forgets it and ends up hurting Sergeant Barnes in the process, and the Sergeant cannot find it in his heart to tell off the man who saved his life – a couple of times over even. Dr. Owlahlie is absolutely certain that this is the main contributor to his relapses; that Captain Rogers, despite being asked to, does not give him space and remember his boundaries, and that Barnes does not feel entitled to demand it of him.”

“Sounds like the Captain needs some help of his own.”

“I agree, but until he realizes that, there's nothing we can do. And Sergeant Barnes is in no condition to make him realize anything, though he is probably one of the few he'd listen to. We can only hope his other compatriots will get through to him.”

“Then that is what we will do. Hope. Did Sergeant Barnes say anything about how he will eventually break the news to him?”

“He's been thinking of several different ways, all contingent of how things go with his recovery. But ask him yourself if you wish to know. His thoughts on how to break bad news or to send an invite for celebration to his oldest friend is not for me to tell you. He should be waking up soon anyway. Go talk to him.”

* * * * *

“Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“About what?”

“Bucky.”

“Nothing.”

“I can't just do nothing.”

“You might have to.”

“But-”

“Cap, if I needed a dentist, would you insist that you fix my teeth for me?”

“'Course not. That's ridiculous.”

“So, when Bucky needs help fixing his head, why do you insist you have to be the one to fix it for him? You're a soldier, not a therapist.”

“But I'm his friend!”

“You're also **my** friend, but that still doesn't make you a dentist. And frankly, if anyone other than a dentist offered to fix my teeth for me, I might take it as a threat.”

“Still not the same.”

“It's pretty close, though. When it comes to the mind, the wrong help can be worse than no help at all, even if the intentions are nothing but good. You gotta trust that he wants to get better, and that he's making informed decisions to get there. T'Challa and Shuri have given him access to all the best people they've been able to. You told me so yourself. But that doesn't mean it's gonna be neither quick nor smooth. Recovery's a bumpy road for everyone, and he's got more to recover from than anyone else I know of. You gotta trust him to make his own decisions, and you gotta focus on yourself. You're allowed to, you know.”

“And what do you suggest doing?”

“For yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“You can start by answering the question I asked back in D.C. A few years ago.”

“What question?”

“What do you want? You told me you don't know. You need to find out.”

“That's it?”

“Harder than it sounds, Cap. Take it from me. A lot harder than it sounds.”

* * * * *

This was it. He was going home to New York. It didn't feel entirely like going home. But he was moving on, taking the next step to getting himself back. He walked onto the landing pad alongside the king of Wakanda, one his first friends since his flight from Hydra. “T'Challa, thank you for everything you've done for me. I don't know how I'll ever repay you. If at any point you find yourself in need of someone like me, I'll be there.”

T'Challa acknowledged his words with a serene smile. “You see about finding out exactly what someone like you are. When you know that, I will let you know if we have need of you. Regardless, you are always welcome here as a friend.”

Wanted rather than needed felt like a strange concept to him. He knew he had to have felt it before, but it was one of those things that had yet to return to him. T'Challa had consistently rejected all notions of repayment. This was the closest the king had ever come to acknowledging the offer. James felt certain he'd never actually call it in. It bugged him. He did not like feeling indebted to anyone. “Guess, I'll just have to come as a friend until I figure out how to repay your kindness.”

The king chuckled. “You are nearly as stubborn as Captain Rogers. It is not surprising you have managed to break free as much as you have.”

“Credit goes to Steve for that, too. He's the one stubborn enough to let me beat him to bloody pulp insisting I had to remember who he was.” He shook his head, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Shuri coming to join in the farewells. “When it comes to stubbornness, I've got nothing on him. Or her.” He nodded in the direction of the young princess.

“As I said, you are always welcome here. Or my dear sister here would have my head,” T'Challa said, when she was within hearing range.

Shuri shouldered past him good-naturedly and proceeded to envelop James in a hug. “I would never. Don't believe a word he says.”

He laughed. “Oh I dunno, princess. By now I remember enough of what it was like to have little sisters...” he finished with a wink, which drew a laugh out of both of the royal siblings.

T'Challa took charge of the conversation again: “For now, I wish you a good recovery. I have spoken to Stark several times, and I am convinced he has your best interests in mind. And Shuri assures me that the scientific side of things is as solid as can be for experimental tech, I believe she said. You will be in good hands.” Shuri nodded in confirmation.

Not that he really needed it. The conversation he'd had in text with the man, and the one vid call where they had seen each other had been enough for him. He wasn't entirely sure that he could trust Stark not to kill him, but even if it came to that, he was confident that the man would have good reason to do so. “Thanks. That's more than I have any right to hope for.”

Shuri shook her head and looked upset. She always did, when the subject of his crimes came up. She and Steve were alike in that regard, but she at least respected that the Hydra assassin was a no less real part of him and who he was now and had never tried to deny it.

“I will miss you, James. You see that you come and visit. And don't wait too long.”

“Your wish is my command, princess.”

She rolled her eyes and smiled fondly. “Good. And call me as often as you like. I want to hear about everything!”

That had even him laughing and he addressed the next comment to T'Challa. “I think she's the reason I've begun remembering my sisters. I swear, baby sisters are a menace. Nearly a hundred years and that hasn't changed one bit.”

“Clearly. Come to think of it, if you happen to recall any good advice on how to handle obnoxious baby sisters, **that** might repay that debt you insist you owe us,” the king stage-whispered conspiratorially.

“Hey!” Shuri protested while he and T'Challa ganged up on her.

“Don't worry,” he consoled her. “I'll attempt to call you every week and tell you how things're going. And I'll tell you everything Stark will let me about this BARF thing. I know that's what you **really** wanna hear about.”

“Aww, no, I want to know about you as well. But I won't be opposed to hearing about the tech.” She hugged him again. “Just call me to talk.”

He and T'Challa shook hands and then he boarded the jet that would take him to his once and future home.

He had several hours to think about what he would say to Stark, when he arrived.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I think I got this right. And now parts 2 and 3 are ready to converge into part 4. Please do leave a comment if you enjoyed reading. Or if you didnt.


End file.
